I lay face-up, my head tilted toward a bright light. The scent of cosmetics and my own sweat fills my nostrils. I feel the cold metal beneath me with my hand, relishing its bold contradiction to my body heat.

Lying on a table, I am vulnerable to the world around me. The world of design and makeup. I have been inside the Remake Center for a couple of hours; getting, as my prep team refers to it, anyway- beautified. Beautifying; being the long, and somewhat painful process that includes ripping out my body hair in sheets, plucking and shaving off blemishes, shaping my nails into identically clean ovals; and finally, dipping me into a rough foam that somehow manages to free me of almost all my skin. The remainder of my skin burns, and all I do now is stroke the table with my hands, trying to concentrate more on the feeling of the surface than anything else.

"Come on, honey, let's get you cleaned up," says a warm voice to my right. It's Selene, a woman assigned to be part of my prep team. She grabs my arm with a light hand, and easily pulls me off the table. Selene's surprisingly strong for someone so short- she's only up to my chin in height. She steers me over to a different corner of the marble room, and I wonder for a second if Eli is in the room next to mine. She positions me in the center after some indecision, and then she and the other member of my prep team, Flavia, get to work on me again. They slather me with a clear gel that I think is a salve, as my skin stops stinging almost instantly after the gel makes contact with it. It's a relatively slow process, and there are only two of them, instead of the usual three. But while I'm a tad impatient and want to meet my stylist as soon as I can, the extension of time gives me some room to think. 

I find myself returning to my thoughts of where my brother is. He's probably undergoing a similar process as me. But maybe not in the room next to mine, if there even is another room. He may not even be on the same floor. My mind tries to introduce some logic, but with no success.

He could be on a different floor, but that doesn't make sense. Doesn't each district have its own floor? How many floors are in the Remake Center? I try to remember, but I truly have no idea.

"Are you thinking about your brother?" I hear Flavia ask me, her voice slightly raspy, with a heavy Capitol accent. She tilts her head to the side, her piercing grey eyes fixed on mine. I don't know how to respond, and when I don't, she just goes back to rubbing the salve lightly onto my calves with her thumbs.

Personally, I'm surprised that my prep team, to put it the nicest way possible, are not of those of the Capitol who are convinced that glitter makes someone worth looking at. I guess I should consider myself lucky. Although they did not seem so at first, I find that Selene and Flavia are actually quite lovely women; and that they might actually be concerned for me.

"Are we ready?" I inquire, trying to keep as much impatience out of my voice as possible.

After a last look-over of me with a pair of tweezers, Selene looks up at me and grins. Though her lips are a distractingly freakish purple, I know she means well. "Yes, I believe so. Let's go get Vernus, Flavia."

They both trot out the door, and I catch a glimpse of a blue tattoo at the back of Flavia's neck before the door closes. For thirty seconds, the only thing to do is go over what I plan to say to my stylist; Vernus, now that he has a name. And feel the slightest bit dismayed that I can't put the silky black robe they gave me back on.

Suddenly needing to do something with my hands, I find my braid with my fingers and fiddle with it, wondering why my prep team didn't touch it. I have no memory of them being told to leave my hair like it was, but maybe they suspected that my hair was best kept in its original braid. Maybe they thought Vernus would want to see it that way. And maybe they'll be right.

When the door opens, I jump, even though the movement was not even very sudden. More like slow hesitation, as if the enterer thinks I may be a vicious beast. Someone's head pokes inside- one completely shaved and covered in elaborate red tattoos of dragons. Vernus, maybe? The person looks up, makes eye contact with me, and mouths the word sorry before he darts into the room. When the door closes behind him, I finally get a good look at the man who must be Vernus. He is clearly from the Capitol, as seen by his tattoos. But I'm glad when I see that his face does not appear to be very self-altered, other than a silver nose ring; and his eyes, the color of ink, seem kind. He wears a white tunic and long black pants, and a silver chain hangs around his throat.

"I'm Vernus, your stylist," Vernus says in a nervous voice, but then clears his throat and builds confidence. "And you must be Cassia, am I right?" he adds as he walks up to me.

"Uh, yes. I'm Cassia," I mumble, my face turning pink for reasons I don't want to think about. I want to slap myself, as I have forgotten everything I planned to say.

"Just stay where you are. I need to look at you," he says, sounding embarrassed when he realizes how awkward the last statement sounded to the both of us. He walks very slowly around me, examining me, his eyes exploring the entirety of my skin. Even when I close my eyes, I feel his gaze, almost as if it's actually a tangible presence. It's humiliating, to say the least, and I feel my arms instinctively trying to cover my chest. But I stop them, knowing that if Vernus needs room to decide what he'll be designing for me, he's going to have to see what I look like. So I just grit my teeth and stand there while he continues looking. After a few more seconds, he stands back, and fixes his dark gaze on mine. "I love your hair, Cassia."

"Thank you," I say, still not sure if I should trust my stylist with the questions I'm tempted to ask him.

Vernus's enthusiasm is clear in his gaze as it sweeps across my hair. More than ever, I itch for my robe.

"I did it," I say, to break the silence, my voice still as quiet as it was before. I scold myself for acting so reserved.

"The braid is beautiful," he marvels, suddenly picking up my hair with his hands and weaving his fingers carefully around it as he studies it. "It's a very simple braid, but it looks very appealing on you."

I cough awkwardly. Suddenly deciding to be a tad bolder, I venture, "How. . . how long have you been designing for the Games?"

"I've been in the Games about three years," responds Vernus. "I was an assistant stylist for my first year, in District Twelve." I can tell from his tone of voice that the coal-mining district was not his first choice.

As if in accordance with my thoughts, he adds, "I hated the way all of the tributes were so glum, and more often than not, they were hostile, too." He shakes his head and smiles at me. "But I've had District Seven for the past two years, and I love designing for the tributes."

"What's so appealing about District Seven?" I say.

Vernus grins at me. His teeth are straight white ones, reminding me of my father. "The trees, Cassia. There are so many different kinds, so many different ones to admire." I nod, encouraging him to go on with a smile. "There are so many to be creative with for costumes," he says dreamily. 

That is when I snap awake and realize. He is flattering me. Distracting me from a certain fact. I suddenly remember the past years I have watched a Game. For as long as I remember, the tributes from District Seven have always been stuck in tree costumes during the chariot parades. It is, as many in my district view it, injustice.

Flattery. Is this what Vernus is defending himself with? Surely he knows that that certain tactic only works for so long. I consider exposing him to his own motives, but that would basically be giving away my own mistrust of his ideas. And, much as I seem to love being right, I don't want him to turn on me.

"Follow me. We can chat in another room," Vernus says, waving me towards him as he heads for the door. But when he catches my slightly quizzical glance his way, he adds, "Go ahead and put on your robe."

Though a personal conversation with my stylist, the very conversation I had been planning for, beckons, I take a few seconds more than necessary to pull on my robe, savoring the feeling of cloth against my skin once more; and once again gathering together a plan. After tying the waist of the robe into a tight knot, I run lightly to catch up to Vernus. He leads me to a room with a wall made entirely of glass, overlooking a glorious scenery of towering buildings. There are a couple of red velvet couches in the center of the room, and in between them is a table of black marble. I sit down on one and Vernus on the other. After glancing outside, Vernus presses what had appeared to be a flat black stone on one of the legs; and I notice the paneling in the center of the table as they open, flipping under the table to be replaced by a pair of identical ones. These hold a couple of wide ceramic dishes, filled with what appears to be shrimp and dark greens over white rice. Red sauce is drizzled over the top in a rippling pattern. A basket of rolls is also present, shaped like lilies instead of orchids, and coated in some kind of clear, sweet-smelling glaze. A large, wooden bowl filled with red pears.

Vernus begins his meal, and as I feel around on the table for my utensils, I find not only silverware, but two long, smooth wooden utensils that narrow slightly at the tips. Chopsticks.

I glance up at Vernus, but for the moment, his focus is still on the food. In the poorest areas of the district, meals are either eaten without utensils or with wooden chopsticks instead of silverware, as our district seems to have a giant surplus of wood.  

How did he know? How did he know that we ate with chopsticks? Did he actually care enough to put these on the table? My mind fumbles with possible reasons that the chopsticks made it with our meal. Maybe some people from the Capitol are not as dense as I expected them to be. Or, as I have suspected as of late, my stylist may be playing more games with my mind.

Vernus lightly breaks into my train of thought. "I just want to update you right now about the ceremony."

I lean forward slightly, interested, but at the same time, hiding dread at what I believe I am going to hear. "Go on."

"Your brother's stylist, Zerina, and I have your costumes ready." I nod, still bracing myself for what he is going to say. On the outside, I probably appear calm, but I am full of emotions threatening to spill over. "Our inspiration is obviously the main export, lumber." I start to slowly count down, knowing I will explode soon as soon as he says what our costumes are. "But we want to leave it as a surprise for you, so that you and your brother don't know what to expect until we show you," he finishes, seeming especially excited with this last bit of information.

I raise my eyebrows slightly. I internally pause, but at the same time, I chastise myself. Maybe I don't know what to expect this year for the parade costume. Maybe it will be better. After all, I don't know everything. My spirits lift just a tad as I pick up a piece of shrimp, wrapped in a dark green leaf. There's also a stray grain of rice attached to the side of the chopstick, trapped in a drop of blood red sauce. I pop the bite into my mouth and am greeted with the comfortable familiarity of the shrimp and greens, and a spicy kick from the sauce.

"I can hardly wait," I reply to Vernus, this time not feigning the anticipation in my statement entirely. I feel potential this time. I know that I will shine in a way that I never had before.

Tonight, I am going to make a statement.

. . .

A few hours later, Eli and I are in our chariot, fully costumed and ready to ride into the parade. When I look upon those last few hours that were spent with our stylists, our eyes closed to conceal what would be our surprise, I could laugh. When I think of how much trust, though only a small amount, I ensured in my judgement of the stylists and in the stylists themselves, I would definitely laugh away.

But right now is not far enough to be within laughing distance. I am boiling mad, trying not to explode at my prep team and the stylists. Because I should have never trusted in Vernus. I should have suspected this same situation.

For the twenty-third year in a row, the tributes from District Seven are going to be trees.

Our costumes are made from the hollowed trunks of pines, with holes cut for our faces and arms. We wear no makeup, probably for the purpose of embarrassing our entire district, and other than the trunks, we are unadorned. Some statement we're going to make, I think sourly as I hear the parade's opening drums. Not only are we boring, but we're repeating the same idiotic costumes from the last twenty-two years. Why did I ever agree to this? I think miserably as I see the tributes from One pulling into the crowded streets. The girl, Amethyst, wears a flowing white gown and a golden headdress that reflects light beams directly into my eyes, mocking me and my stupid costume. The crowd goes insane, screaming their obvious approval.

Vernus, apparently either oblivious or nonchalant about Eli's and my anger, walks up to our chariot and begins going into a lecture about smiling and waving. I block him out, focusing instead on the dragons on his head. Dragons. I have heard myths about them in District Seven, giant creatures that breathed fire and burned their victims alive. Monsters. I glare pointedly at the tattoos, shooting imaginary daggers into their backs, watching the fire fade from their eyes.

I start as I feel our chariot moving, the muscles in our soil-brown horses rippling as they pull it forward. Our stylists see us off, waving and yelling final reminders at us. I curse that I cannot turn around in my tree trunk to see how Eli is faring. Or, for that fact, move. My anger is exchanged for panic as I break out in a cold sweat. The fact that I forgot to warn my stylist that I am claustrophobic must have oh-so-conveniently escaped me. The odds are most definitely not in my favor today.

I forget how to smile and wave as soon as the afternoon sun hits me full-on and my thoughts are silenced by the deafening roar of the Capitol. I feel myself beginning to go into a full panic-attack as the combination of claustrophobia, hysterical screams, and humiliation gets to me. I prepare for the scream threatening to erupt from my lungs, but all of the sudden, I feel Eli's hand grope for mine, and I squeeze it for dear life. I feel some of my anxiety melt away, and I mysteriously manage to force my mouth up into a somewhat convincing grin. I raise my arm as best as I can from inside a tree trunk and wave, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Eli's hand moving in sync with mine. We are communicating multiple messages to the crowd. We are twins, brother and sister. We are allied. We are a team.

I look up at the huge screens projecting all of the tributes, and watch as the images flicker from the tributes from Six to us. And almost burst out laughing, because we look truly hideous. Why is the crowd cheering so loudly at us, then? I look at our expressions and see one possible reason why. Yes, in our own strange little way, we look valiant, ready for battle. I smile, and a few people even blow me a kiss or two, for other reasons that are not very apparent to me. With luck, maybe they are obsessed with trees or something.

The ride lasts twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of crowds, screens, and cameras. The criticism drips from everyone's eyes and lips as they study us, chanting our names if they even bother to look at the programs.

We begin to approach the City Circle when I hear them. The drums. Each chariot begins to make a smooth turn into the Circle, and I see the drummers, noble-looking men and women in black jumpsuits or regal-looking black gowns. They pound the drums in perfect synchronization, the muscles in their arms rippling with each beat. 

Bah-da-BOM. My blood is pure adrenaline, nothing more, nothing less. 

Bah-da-BOM. My heartbeat, the beat of the drums- they are one and the same. 

Bah-da-BOM. I am a warrior, clad in wooden armor. 

We halt behind the sixth chariot. I watch the screens until the coal-black horses of District Twelve's chariot appear, and the music finishes in a final great pound of the drums.

On the main curve of the City Circle lies the sprawling mansion of Panem's president. From a large balcony in the approximate center of the front wall, the most important man in Panem addresses the crowds and tributes with an official introduction. President Snow. It is really quite strange to see him outside of the television screen in the Square in District Seven. He is exactly the same in manner and appearance, but I am exposed to more of his chilling factor. Something about him had always unnerved me when I watched him on a screen, hundreds of miles away. Now I am merely seconds on foot from his balcony, and there is no way to deny my unease.

I am still caught on the expression in Snow's eyes. They are a cold blue, the kind that seems to drain any warmth away from a space. There is something else there, too; the kind of look someone has when they are warning you in a very subtle way that they want to stab you in the back with a knife. 

I know that there are reasons that around some districts, whispers occasionally float around about the idea of power and corruption, but no one dares say them out loud. Never within earshot of Peacekeepers. But it never fools people to tell them that our leaders aren't corrupted. For all we know, mutts rule Panem. Monsters. 

Images of dragons turn cartwheels in the back of my mind. I think of my mysterious, unpredictable stylist, Vernus. There's a sudden brightness behind my eyes, a whirring and turning. Is it possible that ink images can display the idea of corruption so boldly, yet never get caught in the act? My mind struggles with the idea, losing the records of its thinking process, until I know that I am now confusing myself, not sure whether my mind is lingering on the subject of the president, power, or dragon tattoos. Just pay attention, I snap at myself, and I pull my gaze from the president's eerie blue one, shuddering. The screens are flickering, showing final shots of the tributes, before they finally darken.

All of the chariots begin to move again as we make a final round around the City Circle, the national anthem following us out. One by one, the chariots pull into the Training Center, until the cheers and screams of the Capitol's citizens are dominated by the ones from the tributes' stylists. I almost snicker as I pass the tributes from One, who are getting absolutely attacked by their squealing prep teams. We ourselves don't get squealed at, but congratulated on our "exceptional performance", or so according to a giddy woman on Eli's prep team who is dyed bubble-gum pink. Cedar, on the other hand, just gives me and Eli an empathetic glance, and I remember that he must have worn a tree costume as well for his parade.

The inside of the costumes are now incredibly stuffy-feeling, and probably masking the fact that we are sweating buckets under the tree bark. But when I beg to get our heavy costumes off, Vernus says that we need to find our floor before we shed any clothing. I can't help but think about how hard it is to not hate the stylists and their instructions.

"As soon as I get this tree off my back, I'm going to hit Vernus over the head with it," I hiss when Eli is within earshot. He looks at me with an expression that looks to be a mix of frustration and amusement. Then he gives me one of his famous megawatt grins, and I suddenly feel like laughing with relief.

"Did you feel a panic attack coming on?" Eli asks quietly as we are led to the elevators, where the tributes from Two and Twelve are about to leave for their floor.

I nod as best I can, for my head is practically pasted into the wood, just like the rest of me. The silver door to the elevator shuts after we climb inside, and the much taller of the girl tributes presses the button labeled "2". The tributes from Two hardly have to glance our way before they break out in a loud fit of giggling at our log costumes, and as soon as the elevator reaches the second floor, they are coughing, all the air gone from their lungs. Or at least I hope so, anyway. The door slides open, and they stagger out, still laughing their lungs out. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch what may be a sympathetic glance from Twelve's boy tribute, and then see Two's tributes crash in a heap of limbs on the floor, right as the door closes. I stifle a laugh myself, and then Eli presses the button "7", and we begin to move again.

At first, there is complete silence, but a few seconds later, I hear a voice, probably belonging to the boy tribute.

"So," he begins, and an awkward silence follows the statement. I turn towards him, and find that he is staring at me. He looks about eighteen, the oldest one can be as a tribute. The boy coughs and flushes red, and then continues the painfully awkward attempt at conversation. "Trees, huh?" He gestures at our parade wear.

I decide at random to return his message in the same manner.

"Yeah," I sigh, reaching my hand back to scratch my neck, only to realize that most of my skin is still inaccessible. I look over at the boy and his district partner's costumes, not surprised to see skimpy clothes covered in black dust, with silly-looking headlamps that don't appear to do their jobs well. I flick my hand in the direction of his costume. "Coal miners?" I say, my face hopefully sympathetic.

"I don't know about you, but I think certain districts got idiots for stylists," says the sparrow-like girl from District Twelve distastefully, tugging at the hem of her shirt. It barely covers her rib cage.

Eli lets out what sounds like a snort, and the other boy shifts around uneasily. I think I know how he feels. It's not every day that you try to talk to a tribute that could potentially end up killing you. A big risk on his part. I think he realized it, too.

I hear the ding of a bell, and the girl says, "I think it's your floor." And then, "I'm Maggie." The boy elbows her and shoots her a questioning look, and she replies by saying sharply, "Shale!" Shale glares exasperatedly at her, and I almost ask Maggie myself why she told us their names. I can only imagine her mentor, Haymitch, giving her grief about it if he finds out.

The door opens, and Eli and I file out of the elevator. I hear Maggie say something like, "Good luck at training!" before the door clicks shut. And try to decide if she's brave, stupid, or both. She realizes that there's no such thing as good sportsmanship in a death match, right?

I walk down the hall leading to our quarters, to find the stylists, Cedar, and one other person waiting for us in the lounge. When Eli comes in a second later, completely unaware of the visitor, I elbow him and flick my head to the side. When he sees, his eyes go as wide as saucers.

We know this visitor. So does Cedar. My family knew him once, too. Back when our families were friends. . .

"Ash," I acknowledge him, but without any other words, I know that his presence is going to make our trip much more awkward.

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Welcome back, all!

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