A/N: Thanks to Number One Fan of Journey for being my only reader/reviewer so far! It means a lot to me, especially since you don't know half of the source material. Hopefully this chapter will be a bit of an entertaining break before we get down to the training sessions.

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Dieter von Schwesterkrank, 16, District 8

"Get out! You're fired! Leave this instant and don't even think about coming back!"

The hapless assistant stylist wastes no time in complying. No sooner have her high heels clacked over the doorframe than Minette hurls the nearest object – a potted plant – at her retreating form. Fortunately her parting gift misses its mark, but the wall and floor aren't so lucky.

My stylist howls in frustration, fingers digging through her glossy red hair. I almost try and calm her down – it wasn't that big a deal, really, just a few spilt boxes of pins – but think better of it. If there's anything I've learned in the last several hours, it's that interfering with Minette's affairs is, er, hazardous to one's health. Plus, I'd hate to work her up even more.

"Don't just stand there, Sondra, go call an avox to clean up that mess," she snaps, gesturing at the mess of dirt, leaves and shattered porcelain in the hallway. "Heather, stop gawking and brew me a nice pot of my special tea. I'm going to need it."

The two remaining assistants utter prompt "yes, Minette"s and hurry off; one outside, the other to an ornate cabinet at the far end of the room. Looks like I'm alone with my stylist for a while. I definitely don't mind, though. Far from it. That Heather girl kept looking me over one too many times to be comfortable, and present company is far more … pleasurable.

I'd normally call myself a sensible person, but I do believe in love at first sight. After all, what else can account for my grandparents? Hans von Schwesterkrank was a well-off Capitolian soldier; Noisette Tornade was a rebel fighter and about as low on the social ladder as one can get. Nobody knows exactly how they met, but whatever happened was enough for grandfather to completely change his views on the war. He became a double agent, sending messages and smuggling weaponry to her and the other revolutionaries. Neither of them lived to see the end of the Dark Days – the story goes they went out fighting, although I'm starting to wonder if their forbidden love earned them the wrath of their own compatriots. My mom, only a few years old when the war ended, was put into a District 8 orphanage under her father's name. And it all wound up back where it started – with a young von Schwesterkrank in the Capitol, pining after a woman from a vastly different world.

Call me crazy, but I can't help myself. I definitely wasn't expecting this, but when does love ever follow a predictable course? Granted, I doubt she sees me as more than a breathing mannequin, but … well, we've still got a couple of days to get to know each other, right? The thought of many more days after that will be something to keep me going in the arena.

"Now, where was I?" Minette demands after finishing her cup of strongly-scented herbal tea. Her rage seems to have abated by now, so I risk butting in.

"You were looking for pins. See, Heather's got them. You were going to work on my sleeve." Helpfully I indicate the overlong tube of purple fabric.

She casts me a withering glance – at least, I assume she does, because a white satin mask covers all of her face but her narrowed eyes. According to her, it's some kind of statement. The face of the model is irrelevant, she says; it's her clothes that matter. "Are you honestly trying to help me by interrupting my train of thought?"

"No, not at all! Just – uh–"

Minette shakes her head, but at least she doesn't seem angry as she takes the pins from Heather and sets to work. In fact, she actually continues talking to me, albeit in a slightly condescending tone.

"I don't expect you to understand this, Dieter. But, you see, fashion design is a continuous process, one that must flow on unhindered and uninterrupted. It's not just some project to be started and stopped whenever you please. It's like …"

"Like a river?" Heather winks at me, as if she's heard this speech a million times before.

"It's like a river." Minette gives no indication that she heard the girl. "Too many rocks – pointless interruptions, in other words – and its path becomes choppy. That's why I had to fire Emilia back there;some people have no respect for the proper procedure. But now, now I can already feel my creativity flowing again, building like a wave on the ocean, surging towards some unseen shore…"

Over Minette's shoulder, Heather makes a spinning motion by her ear. I shake my head at her. She's a nice girl, I suppose, but all practicality, no passion. Can't she sense Minette's love for her craft; how the intensity of her voice mounts with each word? Everybody from Eight knows how to sew, but nobody I've known can create, not like my stylist. She doesn't just follow patterns or count stitches; she experiments, fantasizes, breathes life into the fabric. It's just like romance, I suppose. You have to be willing to embrace the unanticipated, to philosophize a little, to imbue deeper meaning into the subtleties and coincidences of an otherwise generic world. Especially in unexpected circumstances like this.

"Well, there you are, Dieter," Minette says finally, embroidering the final touch on my suit. "Not a moment too soon; the parade starts in five minutes and they'll be expecting me downstairs."

Heather flushes, watching me pose in front of the mirror. "We've certainly got a fine one this year."

"Yes, I suppose." Minette is dismissive. "But like I said, it's the clothes they'll be looking at. Not the face. The clothes."

With that, she spins on her heel and departs.

Ouch. Well … you know, I can't blame her. She's a fashion designer; of course she's going to think about her creations first, the models second. It's only natural to put the priority on one's art. It doesn't mean she doesn't see anything in me. It doesn't mean she won't. It doesn't mean that she's a grown woman and I'm sixteen and probably going to stay that way forever, right?

And even if it does, is there really any harm in playing pretend while I still can?

J.J. Ling, 16, District 8

"Ouch!" For the fifth time today, I don't quite manage to bite my lip in time as the stylist jabs me with a pin. My hand leaps up to rub my pricked shoulder. "Sheesh, can't you watch where you're putting those things?"

A peeved sigh is the only response I get. Fine, be like that. You're not the one getting used as a human pincushion here.

At least wanting to see what progress they've made, I risk a glance over my shoulder at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I just manage to catch a flash of pink before the stylist swats me. "Ach, stop moving. You'll ruin the stitches. Be patient; it'll be over in ten."

I barely stifle an exasperated groan. That's what he said half an hour ago. At this rate, I'd sooner have Dieter's psycho-lady for a stylist than this clown.

... Then again, judging by the latest bout of enraged screaming from the next room, maybe not.

After fifteen more agonizingly boring minutes – and that's no exaggeration; I watched the clock the whole time – the stylist finally steps back to appraise his work. My prep team whispers and squeals amongst themselves while he admonishes me not to move. Just when I'm this close to shifting my weight for the heck of it, he throws his hands in the air with an exclamation. "Voilà! C'est magnifique!"

Okay, then. Whatever that means, I'm guessing by his tone it's a good thing, so…

"Can I turn around now?"

"Ah, yes, yes. Mais oui!"

With a breath of anticipation, I spin around to face the mirror. Looks like my stylist is aiming for the chic, modern angle this year. That's a relief, given some of the wacked-out costumes the District 8 tributes have had to wear in recent years. Probably Dieter's stylist's fault, that. The v-necked pink shirt is cut rather low and its shoulders, cuffs and waist are pleasingly ruffled. Form-fitting jeans hug my legs. The look is completed with bunches of sparkly bracelets, several necklaces, and a black headband that just restrains my wavy blonde hair. It's a good thing I've got a full figure, because this outfit definitely shows off my curves. Wonder if the stylists counted on that, or if they only started planning this out after they saw me at the reaping.

Brrr. I'm hoping for the former. I know I'll have to get used to this pretty quickly, but I don't like the idea of people watching me when I don't know it. Majorly creeps me out. Who knows what else the Capitol's found out about me just by watching the recaps? Thank Panem I didn't cry onstage; otherwise I probably wouldn't have a hope of being sponspred.

"Now, GiGi," says the stylist, mispronouncing my name with his odd accent, "we're going to see whether or not the chariots are ready. Wait here and don't move about. I don't want you rumpling up your costume."

Yeah, right; like I'm going to sit still after not budging for three hours. The instant the last of the prep team scoots out the door, I take the chance to stretch my legs a little bit. Fortunately, unlike some of the hideous creations I've seen from past opening ceremonies, this outfit gives me room to walk. I think I'd throw a fit if I had some fussy hobble-skirted dress on.

Thank goodness all this waiting is almost over. I might be a bit of a worrywart in some ways – not without good reason now, obviously – but I find it's a lot easier to keep a cool head when I'm actually doing something. Sitting on the train or playing model for the stylists doesn't do much to ease up the tension, even with company around. Dieter's an okay enough guy, but he gets a little boring after a while, especially once he gets tired of hangman. Probably jealous that I kept stumping him. Not my fault he can't spell 'facetious.'

Am I going off on a tangent now? Whoops, can't even keep my own inner rambling straight. Ha ha. Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah, waiting. As I was saying, the whole impending doom thing is a lot easier to handle when you can actually do something about it. Something other than getting stabbed with pins, that is. The chariot ride might be a bit tough – got to seem spunky and fun and pretty much anything but weak – but it'll be exciting to try and attract sponsors. Can't say I've ever been in a situation where a bunch of weirdos betting on my life is a desirable thing before! Then, tomorrow, we'll finally get to the training center, which'll be a relief. It'll be handy to learn something beyond smiling for a camera, although I don't really know how much good it'll do me. The interviews will be like the chariots, but more intense; again, I'll need to pull some toughness out of I-don't-know-where to cover up everything that's, well, not so intimidating about myself. And after those comes … well, we'll deal with that when we come to it, won't we? Lots of time before then.

I stop by one of the high-set windows and hoist myself up on a table to peer out at the city. From the eighth floor I have a pretty good view of the streets, all vibrantly illuminated in anticipation of our arrival. The distant din of cheering Capitolians must have been going on this whole time, but I'm only made aware of it now.

"Miss Ling?" One of the prep team ladies pokes her head through the door. "It's time to go down to the-"

At the sight of me kneeling on a tabletop on the other end of the room, she lets out a comically high-pitched scream. "Miss J.J.! Monsieur Traquenard told you not to move! Your costume, it is, it is…"

Adopting a mortified expression, I hop down off my perch and smooth an imaginary wrinkle off of my blouse. "I'd have stayed put, honestly, if it weren't for that crazed fan! Barged in and wouldn't quit pestering me until I told him Monsieur Traquenard had just gone down to the chariots, and he'd better hurry if he wanted his autograph. Sheesh, some security you guys have in here!"

I'd almost laugh at the puzzled look on her face, if that wouldn't give my fib away. Seriously, the woman has one violet plume of an eyebrow cocked up and the other slanted downwards, like she can't decide whether to be suspicious or totally fooled. Apparently at a loss for words, she just tilts her head and leads me off to the elevator while quietly chastising my 'lack of respect' for 'the good stylist's orders.'

Little white lies like that come naturally to me. Life in a textile factory can get pretty boring, so what's the harm in stirring up some excitement every once in a while? Sure, it might not be entirely honest, and yeah, it makes some people mad if I get caught. But it's not like I'm hurting anybody. I'm just being … creative.

And, if anything, those lies are going to keep me alive in the arena. See, I figure to be a good tribute, you have to be a pretty good actress, too. The real J.J. might be a cool person, but mere likeability doesn't really translate to much of a threat in the other tributes' eyes. Give them a smirk and a leer, and even if it's a mask, they'll start to believe it. So I'm going to exaggerate, and I might as well start practicing now.

I tune back into prep team lady's ramble just as the lift doors glide open to reveal a huge underground room. She has time to hiss that I'm lucky I didn't get a stylist as strict as Dieter's before the flood of sound drowns her out. Tributes and staff are everywhere, some decked out in the most ridiculous costumes I've ever seen, while a row of chariots and horses waits expectantly near a gigantic door. I swivel my head this way and that, eager to get a good look at the competition before they can size me up.

I'm pretty sure the slender blonde glittering with diamonds is the girl from 1, which makes the brunet beside her another Career. If you ask me, he looks a little too excited for this to all get started. The Sevens and Tens are easy to pick out thanks to their costumes – seriously, you'd think they'd get tired of lumberjacks and cowboys after a while – and the Ten guy is definitely easy on the eyes. He's casting glances at the Nine girl, who seems to be talking to herself. Probably anxious. You can't blame her. This wouldn't be half as nerve-wracking if the Capitol would just get on with it already.

"Ah, GiGi! There you are!" Right on cue, my stylist appears, with Dieter and his crew close behind. My district partner looks nice in a flamboyant lavender suit, and I have the feeling one of his blushing prep team members more than agrees.

"Everything's ready?" inquires Dieter's stylist sharply. After a few assurances, we head over to our chariot and clamber aboard, the Capitolians shouting out last-minute fashion tips all the way. The muted beginnings of Panem's anthem from outside confirm we're just on time.

All right. Time for act one. Show them you mean business.

Dieter already looks a little queasy, so I hate to pick on him, but he's the only tribute available at the moment. More the point, if I put this off any longer then I'll never stop. I notice him glancing repeatedly at his stylist, put two and two together, and jump upon the chance.

"Hey, Dieter? You wanna know what I heard?"

"What?"

"Well, my prep team was gossiping a bit about your prep team, and you know, I couldn't help but listen in, since it was totally boring just standing there, and…"

"Yeah, and?"

"Oh, nothing." I tilt my head and sneer. "Just that your stylist has the hots for the District Ten boy."

His splutter is drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the doors open and we're propelled into blinding light. I freeze the nasty triumph on my face and can only hope that it's the crowd's first impression of me. Here's J.J. Ling, people – fierce, gutsy and ready to kick some ass.

That's more than I can say for the scared girl underneath.