"Why do we have to get all fancied up if we're just going to be slaughtered later?" I ask my stylist.
"To get sponsors."
"That's stupid."
"Yes it is."
I may like this guy.
After 4 hours of prodding, soaking, and cutting, I look 'perfect.'
I look nowhere near myself.
My hair is shiny and smooth, my nails perfectly manicured, my body scrubbed of anything other than skin. Which they probably took some of that off, too.
"All done! No go wow those judges at your session!" He says, grinning.
"Ha. I'll try to get a 1."
"Well that's not good spirit!"
"It's hard to have good spirit when you're about to die."
"Let me tell you a secret. These Games are horrid. Absolutely horrid. But to win, you need to stay alive. To stay alive you need sponsors. To get sponsors you need scores and you need spirit. Okay?"
"Sure." I walked out of the room, fed up with the Capitol's idea of a 'game,' and decided I was going to win these horrid Games.
Spirit or not.
