I've experienced some torturous pain before. One time, when I was first starting out in the wheat fields, I didn't quite know how to properly use a sickle to make the process of harvesting seed heads easier. I ended up slicing my palm open. I think you could hear my screams all throughout the district. It took three people to get the bleeding to stop and calm me down enough so the town doctor could start dressing the wound. After that, I was always extra careful around sickles. I never wanted to undergo that kind of agony again.
As it turns out, getting your eyebrow hairs forcefully ripped out of your face is just as painful, if not worse.
I don't know how long I've been lying on this cold metal table in the Remake Center while people from the Capitol poke at my arms, prod at my ribs, try to figure out how to make me look presentable for the parade later today. Far too long, and I'm honestly surprised I haven't lashed out at them yet. My eyebrows are throbbing. I probably look insane. Did they even leave any hair up there?
I overheard one of the members of my prep team—her hair is neon green and covered in gaudy sparkles—say something about a pair of fuzzy caterpillars taking a nap on my face before they started plucking my eyebrows out. I should feel offended, but how can I when it looks like she has plums for lips? Someone should probably tell her to go easy on the injections.
I try to fill my mind with pleasant thoughts while the prep team lathers some citrus-scented foam on my face, then my neck, and practically every bit of skin they're planning to expose for the parade, which hopefully won't be a lot. According to them, it's supposed to remove all the layers of dead skin and grime to "make me glow." Although, judging by how the guy with the bright purple hair and sparkly gold tattoos is almost reflective in the lights hanging above us, I'm genuinely afraid to see what I look like when they rinse this stuff off.
It's not even noon, and I'm already exhausted. Rowena, as I expected, knocked on my door at the crack of dawn, and I'd only just relaxed enough to get some sleep. She practically had to drag me out of bed and plop me down at the table for a quick breakfast, and even then, I barely had time to eat a piece of toast and a few bites of oatmeal before she put us in a car and shipped us off downtown to the Remake Center.
It wasn't a long ride, so I didn't have much time to talk to Castiel—or Cas, I guess, since he said I could call him that. He looked significantly better than he had the previous day. Maybe it was the better food, the comfier beds, the relief of having a safe place to stay for a few days. Or maybe it was because he decided to share a personal story with me, and I gave him trust and reassurance in return. I know that made me feel better, anyway. Whatever the case, I'm glad he looks more at ease.
I wonder how his prepping is going. We were separated the moment we arrived at the Remake Center, dragged off into the custody of our individual prep teams. All the tributes are here, actually, and while that thought makes me uncomfortable, I can't see any of them. There are thick curtains blocking off everyone from one another's view. It's just my prep team and me in this one section, and that's what I try to focus on.
Just when I thought the pain couldn't get any worse, the lady with the neon green hair furrows her equally neon green brows. While the other two rinse the foam off me—I will admit that my skin does feel kind of nice—she retrieves a paper strip from the table of supplies nearby and whispers something to the guy with the purple hair, pointing at my bare chest.
Oh no.
There are only three baby hairs on my chest, if even. Can't they just leave them? They're barely noticeable. They're so short and borderline blond. They're impossible to see unless you're purposely looking for them. Why would they bother—
Too late. The guy with the purple hair drizzles a hot waxy liquid across the small patch, pats the paper strip over it, and rips it off before I have a chance to prepare myself.
I miss the sickle incident.
* * * * *
I feel like a newborn baby. My skin is red and itchy in the places my prep team yanked hair follicles out of. It throbs with every beat of my heart. They put some kind of grease and lotion on it before they sent me off to a secluded room to meet my stylist, but if it was supposed to help with the stinging, it's not working.
I can't help but wonder who my stylist is as I sit alone in this quiet room, skin prickling and head pounding. Will they be like the lady with the neon green hair? The guy with the purple hair and shiny tattoos? It's impossible to predict Capitol fashion because it seems to change every week. One week those long eyelashes are in style, but the next it's lip injections or wigs so tall they scrape the ceiling. Whoever they are, I hope they don't dress me up in something so bizarre that I won't be able to walk or see.
I'm almost startled out of my seat when the door creaks open and a short, relatively stocky man glides into the room. He looks so normal compared to my prep team that I'm sure my jaw drops down when I see him. He's clad in a sleek black suit and tie, nothing like the flashy green dress that one lady was wearing. His dark hair looks like it hasn't been altered or dyed at all. The only thing that alludes to a hint of Capitol fashion is the black eyeliner around his eyes. The lines go past his eyelids and form a simple shape beneath his temples, but overall, he's shockingly tame. And I'll admit that he doesn't look half bad.
"Hello, Dean," he says, his voice deeper than I expected and tinged with an accent I don't quite recognize. "I'm Crowley, your stylist."
An interesting name, that's for sure. We are in the Capitol, after all, but he seems nice enough so far. Maybe I won't have to pretend to like him.
"Hello," I say, watching as he taps his chin, already taking note of how I look. I wish I had clothes or even a robe to hide behind, but my prep team wouldn't allow it. Something about our stylists needing to see everything—and I mean everything—in order to best dress us according to our physique.
The people of the Capitol really have no shame, do they?
This is embarrassing. I can feel the heat creeping into my face as Crowley scans me from head to toe. He doesn't prod at me like the prep team did, just silently observes; I don't know which is worse.
After what seems like hours—when in reality it's more like seconds—Crowley thoughtfully hums to himself and nods toward the robe that's hanging from a hook on the wall. "You seem uneasy," he remarks. "Put that on, and we'll chat over lunch."
He doesn't need to tell me twice. I snatch the silky gray robe off the hook and slip it on as he strolls toward the door. He leads me to another private sitting area just a few steps down the pristine corridor, but this one offers a marvelous view of the city. The room is small but alight with warm sunlight and decorated with plush furniture. My stylist takes a seat in one of the velvety chairs, then gestures for me to do the same.
"I must admit," Crowley begins as I sink into the cushioned seat, "I was very moved when I watched the recap of District Nine's reaping. You did a very courageous thing for your brother, Dean. I'm impressed. Family loyalty often doesn't overcome the power of the reapings."
I'm not quite sure what to say in response, but I manage a nod and murmur a thanks.
"I know people of the Capitol aren't always the most caring or likable—"
He's not wrong about that.
"—but believe me when I say that I'm here to help you. I take pride in my work, but I always try to accommodate my tributes, too. You're still human. You're not a piece of meat for everyone to ogle at. I'm here to help you look your best, but I'm also here to take some stress off your mind. All you have to do is trust me."
I'm taken aback by some of his words. Usually when I saw stylist interviews in the past, all they seemed to care about was how attractive they made their tributes look. They didn't care about the tribute's feelings or anything else that was going on in their life. It was all about presentation. Presentation and appearance are everything in the Capitol. I'm not sure why Crowley wants to help me with things far past just my looks, but I suppose I can't complain. I could've gotten a much, much worse stylist who wanted to throw me into the parade half-naked to attract more sponsors.
But I can't hold back a scoff when he mentions trusting him. "Not like I have much of a choice, do I?"
At this, he merely cracks a smile, an amused smirk, like that's what he was expecting me to say. "Not really," he acknowledges, "but I still want to give you the option. Good working relationships are all about mutual respect, aren't they, Dean?"
I hate to admit that that elicited a smile out of me. Something about my stylist's charm is difficult to dislike.
A large platter of food is brought into the room by one of the Remake Center's servants—I think they're called Avoxes—and set on the table before us. A juicy chicken, more buttered rolls, a bowl of delectable fruit, a side of leafy green salad, and a slice of cheesecake for dessert. It looks—and smells—absolutely divine. I start to forget that I'm supposed to be talking with my stylist while I chow down and satisfy my grumbling stomach.
"So, Dean," Crowley goes on. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm eating like a starved animal. "I spent a lot of time thinking about what your costumes should be for the parade this evening. My partner Meg, who's the stylist for your fellow tribute, and I spent hours pondering over a lot of different options."
There's a pause in our conversation as I stop to swallow a mouthful of steaming chicken.
"What did you come up with?" I ask. At first I was terrified to know, picturing all sorts of gaudy or overly sexual costumes that I would be forced into, but now that I've met my stylist and his rather conventional fashion taste, I find myself genuinely curious to see what his ideas are.
Crowley smirks again, his dark eyes glimmering in the sunlight that's pooling into the room. "Well, after watching the recap of the reaping, Meg made a comment on how fiery your determination was. It portrayed you as powerful and unafraid, a force not to be reckoned with. That got us thinking.
"As you know, it's customary for costumes to reflect the districts' main industry. For Nine, that's grains and harvest. But that isn't cutthroat or determined like you are. We want to do something different, something that isn't a boring loaf of bread or a featureless wheat stalk. We want Panem and the other tributes to know that you aren't here to mess around. You're here to win and go home to the brother you courageously volunteered for, and you're not going to let anything stop you."
I'll admit it without scorn now. My stylist is like nobody I've ever met from the Capitol—and that's a fantastic thing—and I can't be more grateful that he's representing me. All the horrible things that my prep team did to me don't matter anymore. I'm happier than I've been all day.
"Tell me, Dean," Crowley says with a sly grin as he leans forward, "do you also raise cattle in your district?"