The Remake Center was a hive of sterile smells and bright lights. I was ushered into a room where my prep team—Octavia, Flavius, and Venia—stood waiting. They were like colorful, chirping birds, blissfully ignorant of the horror they were preparing me for. I actually found their ignorance somewhat sweet; it was easier to deal with children than with monsters.
However, they were quickly rendered useless. When they moved to scrub me, they stopped, eyes wide. I was already spotless, my skin exfoliated and smooth from my ritual with David on the train. I had bypassed their entire purpose.
Then there was my stylist, Darien. He was eccentric, to say the least, but he was also lazy. For the last ten years, he'd put District 12 in the same dusty coal miner rags. When he flourished a sketch of a jumpsuit covered in synthetic soot, I didn't even let him speak.
"No. I am not wearing such an unoriginal outfit," I huffed, crossing my arms.
Darien blinked, his feathered lashes fluttering. "Excuse me? This is the tradition for—"
"Tradition is just another word for a lack of creativity," I interrupted. "Call for my district partner and his stylist. Now."
"Fine... whatever you say," he replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he signaled for David and his stylist, Portia.
When the pair walked in, Portia looked startled. Most tributes are trembling or catatonic at this stage, but I stood there with the authority of a queen. "My name is Zinnia," I said, my voice steady. "I do hope you don't mind that I called for you."
"M... My name is Portia," she stammered, clearly thrown by my civility. "I'm the stylist for the male tributes."
I didn't waste time. I handed David the suit I had modified—the one I'd been working on since the train. As he went behind the screen to change, I turned back to the stylists. When David stepped out, he looked absolutely dashing. The suit was a deep, matte black, but the fabric was woven with microscopic obsidian glass. It didn't look like fire; it looked like the heart of the earth. It was rich, pressurized, and dangerous.
I walked over and meticulously adjusted his tie. "How do I look, Mama?" he asked cutely, looking up at me with those wide, trusting eyes.
The silence in the room was deafening. Both Portia and Darien had their mouths hanging open.
"Dashing, my dear light," I said, smiling with a warmth that was entirely real. For a second, the Capitol faded away, and I remembered seeing my son in my previous life wearing a dashing suit. The ache in my chest was sharp, but I channeled it into my role.
"Z... Zinnia," Portia finally whispered. "Did David just say... Mama?"
I sighed at the somewhat stupid question. "Yes, Portia. I have adopted him, if you must ask."
Darien couldn't help himself. He butted in, his voice shrill. "But you do know that you'll have to kill each other in the Games, right?"
I turned my gaze toward him. I wasn't smiling anymore. He wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the shed, but the comment was a line he shouldn't have crossed. "Yes, I do know that. You got a problem?"
I must have looked absolutely horrifying—the "Ghost of Twelve" showing her teeth—because he turned pale and immediately replied a quick, "No!"
"Good. Darling," I said, turning back to David, "could you please sit in the styling chair?"
"OK, mama," he replied like a child would, sitting down.
I took the tools and began to style his hair. I smoothed it back into sharp, clean lines that looked like carved anthracite. As I worked, I spoke to Portia and Darien. "When we go into the parade and the interviews, I already have the outfits prepared. But I need you two to say that you were the ones to make them, alright?"
Portia looked bewildered. "Why?"
"Simple. Because no one must know that I can make such designs. Else I would be monitored and interrogated on how I even know how to make such clothing," I answered calmly.
"A... Alright," they said in unison, completely shocked.
I smiled and went to change into my own gown. It was a masterpiece of textures—deep blacks that seemed to swallow the light, accented with shards of polished coal that looked like black diamonds. No fire. Just the raw, elegant power of the earth.
Walking out of that changing room, the first thing I saw were mouths dropped to the ground.
"Wow. Mama, you look gorgeous," David said, still looking stunned.
"Thank you, Dear." I sat down in the chair and spent the next hour meticulously doing my hair and makeup. I avoided the typical "soot" look, opting instead for sharp, geometric lines in charcoal and silver that made my features look as if they were etched from stone.
We didn't look like victims of the mines.