Chapter 4 : The Remake
The Remake Center smelled like chemicals and desperation.
Peacekeepers escorted us from the train station through underground tunnels that eventually opened into a building of glass and chrome. They separated Katniss and me without ceremony—her to one wing, me to another—and suddenly I was surrounded by three Capitol citizens whose appearance made Effie Trinket look understated.
"Oh, darling, look at his skin!"
"The hair! Has anyone in District 12 heard of conditioner?"
"Those nails. Those nails. I might cry."
My prep team descended like vultures on carrion. Three of them, each more colorful than the last: a woman with violet hair teased into spirals, a man whose face bore gold tattoos in swirling patterns, and another woman with skin surgically altered to shimmer like fish scales. They introduced themselves in a blur of syllables I immediately forgot.
The violet-haired one grabbed my arm and turned it over, examining. "We have so much work to do."
They weren't wrong.
What followed was three hours of systematic humiliation. They stripped me naked without asking, commented on every imperfection with theatrical horror, then set about fixing me with the enthusiasm of children dissecting a frog. Wax tore hair from places hair should never be torn. Scrubbing brushes attacked my skin until I felt raw. Scissors and razors shaped what remained into something acceptably Capitol.
I could have resisted. Could have made this harder. Instead, I smiled and asked questions.
"This is wonderful work," I said as the gold-tattooed man scraped dead skin from my heels. "Have you prepped many tributes?"
He preened. "Fifteen years in the industry, darling. I've worked on victors. Actual victors!"
"Really? What made them different from the others?"
The question opened floodgates.
They talked while they worked, and I listened. Career tributes arrived already polished—Districts 1, 2, and 4 prepared their children for this moment from birth. They had signature looks, expected styles. Sponsors recognized them immediately. But the outer districts? Forgettable. Coal dust and calluses and defeat before they even entered the arena.
"Last year's victor," the fish-scale woman said, buffing my fingernails, "nobody expected him to last a week. But then he gave that interview—"
"What interview?"
"Oh, you should have seen it! Caesar asked about his family, and he started crying, but in this beautiful, dignified way. The sponsors went crazy. Everyone wanted to save the sensitive boy."
Personality. Performance. The Games started long before the arena.
I filed the information away and kept smiling.
During a brief break while they argued about eyebrow shape, I spotted a small tube of cream on the counter. Capitol medical grade, the label said. Good for burns, cuts, infections. The prep team had their backs turned, gesturing dramatically at each other.
My Blind Spot sense found the gap—three seconds where no eyes pointed my direction.
I palmed the tube and stored it with a thought. Gone. My inventory now held a knife, a fork, and medical supplies.
"All right, darling, we're ready for Portia!"
They draped me in a thin robe and positioned me in the center of the room like a sculpture awaiting judgment. Then they filed out, still chattering, leaving me alone with white walls and my own reflection.
The door opened.
Portia was younger than I expected. Late twenties, maybe, with dark hair cropped short and eyes that moved too quickly to miss anything. She wore Capitol fashion—geometric patterns in black and silver—but her accessories were minimal. Practical. She circled me once, twice, her gaze clinical and assessing.
"Nolan James. The volunteer."
"That's me."
"District 12." She stopped in front of me. "Usually I'm given coal miners who've already accepted their deaths. You haven't."
"Dying seems overrated."
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "The tribute parade is tonight. First public impression for sponsors, for the Capitol, for the other tributes. Historically, District 12 goes for coal miner chic. Black suits. Headlamps. Mining helmets. Forgettable."
"And you want something different."
"I want fire." She pulled a tablet from her bag, swiped to a design sketch. "Coal burns. That's what makes it valuable. I want you and your partner to burn."
The sketch showed a figure in black, flames erupting from shoulders and crown. Bold. Dramatic. Completely insane.
"Will it work?"
"The synthetic flame is safe. Looks real, feels warm, won't hurt you." She met my eyes. "The question is whether you can carry it. Fire demands presence. Can you burn without flinching?"
I thought about dying in a hospital bed, slowly, carefully, letting the world happen to me. About waking up in a stranger's body with a second chance I hadn't earned. About standing on that stage and volunteering before fear could stop me.
"Light me up."
Portia's expression shifted. Something like approval. "Get dressed. We have work to do."
The costume was a masterpiece of engineering disguised as fashion.
Black unitard, fitted close, designed to make me look taller than I was. Cape of synthetic fabric that draped like silk but wouldn't melt or burn. Headpiece that framed my face like a crown. Portia made adjustments, pinning here, tucking there, muttering measurements to herself.
"You'll stand beside Katniss Everdeen on the chariot. Cinna—her stylist—and I coordinated. Matching flames, unified presentation. District 12, together. The Capitol loves a narrative."
"What narrative are we selling?"
"That's up to you." She stepped back, examining her work. "But two volunteers who burn together? That's a story they haven't seen before."
The prep team returned to apply finishing touches. Makeup that made my skin glow. Product that made my hair shine. By the time they finished, the boy in the mirror looked like a stranger—polished, Capitol-approved, ready for consumption.
But underneath all of it, I was still me. Still carrying a knife and stolen supplies in a space nobody knew existed. Still planning, watching, waiting.
The door opened again. Through the gap, I caught a glimpse of black fabric and flame-colored accents. Katniss, across the hall, surrounded by her own prep team. Our eyes met through the chaos of stylists and assistants.
She nodded once. Sharp. Certain.
I nodded back.
The tribute parade was waiting. Time to burn.
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