A/N - So this story assumes that when Snow told Katniss to "Convince me," it worked. As a result, the Victors weren't sent back into the arena for the 3rd Quell. There was no rebellion. And here we are, 25 years later...
"As a reminder that the power of the Capitol extends over everyone, this year the tributes will be reaped from all citizens regardless of age. There will be no volunteers."
Carol Peletier, winner of the 75th Annual Hunger Games and 3rd Quarter Quell, watched the announcement delivered by President Blake, and held her daughter a little tighter. This Quell would be Sophia's first Reaping, and while her name would be one amongst thousands and thousands of others from District 11, Carol couldn't help the tight knot of anxiety that formed within the pit of her stomach. Other victors had warned her against having children, but despite the risk, she had always wanted to be a mother. It was even worth entering into the loveless violent marriage with her now dead ex-husband to become a mother. And she had assumed that having a child would stop President Snow—and later his successor, President Blake—from utilizing her quite so much. And for a couple of years, it had worked. But now she held the very real fear that Sophia could be used as a punishment towards her.
She desperately pushed the thought aside, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Sophia's head. One name against tens of thousands. The odds should be very much in her favor.
District 11 was large enough that during a normal year, not all citizens were able to attend the Reaping in person. Immediate family members of potential tributes were obligated to be there, and viewing at home was of course mandatory for all other citizens.
And so for this year's Quarter Quell, the 100th annual Hunger Games, special arrangements had been made. Five checkpoints had been set up across the District at important focal points, and citizens had to make their way to one of these checkpoints, depending on their surname. Anyone whose name began with letters A to E had to gather in front of the usual Justice Building.
It had been many, many years since Daryl Dixon had attended his last Reaping, and now he was back here once again. And he couldn't help but feel that somehow, his number was up. Still, he kept reminding himself, the chances of either his or Merle's name being picked were miniscule. This year, everyone's chances were equal. There were no Tesserae entries. No extra entries depending on age. By the time he turned eighteen, his name had been in the damned Reaping Ball forty-three times, and he'd managed to escape unharmed. Now he was just one name amongst tens of thousands. The odds should be very much in his favor.
When he had been of Reaping age, he had hated having to dress up on Reaping Day on the off-chance that it was his name drawn, and he hated having to do it today. Neither he nor Merle owned anything particularly smart, and certainly nothing that hadn't been repaired a hundred times. He had eventually settled on a plain dark navy shirt, and had tried to bring some form of order to his messy hair by flattening it with a lick of spit.
He checked his appearance in the cracked mirror that hung in the bathroom of the tiny wooden home he shared with his brother. "You better hurry up, little bro," shouted Merle from outside. With one last glance in the mirror, Daryl sighed and went outside to join his older brother.
"Well, aint you lookin' good enough to eat," smirked Merle. "You hopin' to pick up some tail once we're done? Maybe hopin' to catch the eye of a particular silver-haired fox?"
"Shut up, Merle," said Daryl, refusing to look his brother in the eye. Hundreds of people were already making their way towards the Justice Building in the centre of town, and Daryl began to follow them.
"Hell, if you aint lookin' to catch her, you aint gonna have no objections if ole' Merle has a shot…"
Daryl flashed him a warning look, and Merle began to laugh, before jogging to catch up with him.
"So tell me, Darlina. There somethin' goin' on with you and that little mouse? You aint gonna deny me that baby Daryl's been wantin' to get wet with that piece of ass since you was a kid."
"Shut up."
"I know you talk to her, Darlina. You can't keep shit like that secret from Merle."
Daryl scowled at his older brother. "There aint shit there," he said. "Yeah, I talked to her a couple times, but you think if I was with her I'd still be sharin' a bedroom in that shit-hole with you?"
Merle laughed heartily and threw an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Ya got me there, little bro. Come on, let's get this shit show over with."
They finally reached the centre of town, where thousands of people were already gathering to register. After giving their names and a blood sample, Daryl and Merle were shepherded over to stand with all the other men and boys whose surname began with the letter D.
Eventually, as the midday sun was beating down hard against the back of his neck, making him sweat almost as much as the nerves of the Reaping itself, the District Mayor walked up onto the enormous stage erected in front of the Justice Building. Immediately following him was the Capitol's spokeswoman, and then District 11's previous victors.
He caught a glimpse of Carol Peletier, the last winner of a Quarter Quell. He had been sixteen at the time and could remember the Reaping well; as a reminder that during the Dark Days, rebels had often turned on one another, the tributes were chosen personally by whoever's name had come out of the Reaping Ball. Daryl had been grateful that his brother was too old to compete; undoubtedly many people would have happily chosen Merle as a tribute if they'd had the chance, but Daryl had been utterly terrified that someone would choose him as a second-hand punishment for Merle's many indiscretions. He had almost collapsed to the floor in relief when the person nominated was a boy in the year below him. Apparently he had bullied the boy whose name was drawn. Hardly a surprise that the boy had wanted revenge.
What had been surprising was the nomination of Carol Peletier, née Fairbain. Despite the fact that her family worked in the same fields as his, Daryl didn't know her well enough to speak to. Not that he had ever tried. She was an undeniably pretty girl who had caught his eye, but she was couple of years older than him, and every time he tried, he was overcome by shyness. But she seemed quiet, friendly, and conscientious. Hardly the type to have acquired any enemies at all.
But even more surprising had been that Carol proved herself to be an excellent survivalist and efficient killer. She had been nervous and unassuming during her interview with a score of just 6, and for a moment Daryl had half wished he was there with her to protect her. He had daydreamed that they would allow two winners again, like they had the year before. And that he and Carol would have a love story as famous as Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, and a fancy wedding paid for by the Capitol, and never have to slave away for practically nothing ever again. But he had stopped the thoughts as soon as they formed. Partially because there was no point thinking that way, and partially out of embarrassment of what his daddy and his older brother would say if they could hear his thoughts.
She was one of the first to work out that the arena worked like a clock, with different traps setting off every hour, and she managed to keep just away from the most dangerous sectors, allowing the arena to kill most of the tributes, swiftly picking off the remaining few with a dagger. She emerged from the arena rail thin and exhausted, but every bit the Capitol hero.
As the Mayor stepped up to the microphone on the stage and began to talk, giving the history of Panem in the same monotonous tone that he spoke in every year, Daryl's mind began to wander back to the first time he had tried—and failed—to speak to her.
Daryl had only been two years old when someone from District 11 had last won the Hunger Games. He couldn't remember a time when the Dixons had enough food, even with both him and Merle signing up for multiple Tesserae every year, and with the added meat from the times he and Merle sneaked out to some of the more isolated orchards to hunt.
And so when Carol won, and the Capitol provided extra food to every single family in District 11, Daryl desperately wanted to talk to her. To thank her for winning from the very bottom of his heart. Because this year, for the first time ever, he hadn't signed up for Tesserae. He hadn't had to put his life further on the line just to stop himself from starving to death. He and Merle weren't risking the very real and terrifying wrath of the Peacekeepers to illegally provide for themselves.
And there was something about her that he was inexplicably drawn to—something both beautiful and sad—and he wanted to help. He wanted to see her smile, and he wanted that smile to be because of him. After all, she had improved his life no end this year. Surely there was something he could do for her in return?
The Capitol had organised an event where she would hand out extra rations, and be filmed for various Capitol Propos. And Daryl waited patiently in line for his opportunity to talk to her. And maybe she would notice him in return. Maybe then he would see her smile?
No. She was a Victor. One of the most celebrated people in all of Panem. And he was… he was nobody. Why would she ever give a shit about a nobody when she could have absolutely anyone she wanted?
As he reached the head of the queue and took his extra rations he dipped his head, unable to even make eye contact with her, and he mumbled a half-hearted, "Thanks," then stalked away as quickly as possible.
The mayor had stopped talking, and had passed the stage over to Hestia Silverberg, the Capitol escort. This year her hair had been dyed a lurid purple, and it clashed violently with the lime green corseted dress that she had squeezed her ample body into.
"It is an honor to be here in District 11," said Hestia in a forced, bubbly voice. "Especially for such a monumental occasion as the one hundredth anniversary of the way of life that keeps the peace. Happy Hunger Games, everyone, and may the odds be ever in your favor! As always, ladies first."
Hestia tottered over to the first glass Reaping Ball, which was filled to the brim with small slips of paper. She plunged her arm deep into the Ball and withdrew a single slip of paper. She slowly unravelled this and made a delighted face.
"This is exciting!" she said. "Our first tribute is…" She paused and looked out over the crowd, who collectively held their breath. "Sophia Peletier!"
There was an inhuman cry from the stage, as Carol shot to her feet. She was held back by those around her, including Chaff, Durian, Cane, and Seeder, the other District Victors. "Let go of me!" she cried. "Let me volunteer!"
Daryl's heart broke for her as she was wrestled back into her seat, and on the enormous television screens they showed a terrified young girl being walked up to a stage in a different part of the District.
"Holy shit," whispered Merle from beside him. "What are the odds of a shitstorm like that happenin' without it bein' fixed?"
"I dunno," said Daryl. He couldn't tear his eyes from Carol, who was leaning forward in her seat, her head in her hands, the very picture of despair.
"Well, this is exciting, but we've still got the boys to go!" said Hestia, trying to regain some order.
"Good luck, baby brother," whispered Merle.
"Yeah, and you," he replied. Not that they really needed it. There were thousands—literally thousands—of names in those glass balls. But that small comfort didn't stop his heart from pounding harder in his chest, nor did it stop him holding his breath and crossing his fingers as Hestia plunged her hand deep inside the ball and pulled a single slip of paper from within its depths.
She teetered over to the microphone on her ridiculously high heels as she delicately unfolded the tiny scrap of paper with her carefully manicured finger nails. A huge grin broke out over her face. "Well, this is most fortunate! Our male tribute can come right up on stage immediately! Daryl Dixon, please make your way up here!"
When he had been eight years old, he'd climbed one of the peach trees in the orchards, and had missed his footing, sending him tumbling back to the earth with a terrifying jolt. He experienced a similar sensation in his stomach now. There had to have been a mistake. He refused to believe it, and turned helplessly towards his brother. There was anger, sadness, and disbelief on Merle's face, and for a moment Daryl couldn't understand why. They had misheard her, that was all. It was a simple misunderstanding. Out of the thousands of names in that Reaping Ball, his could not have been the one chosen.
Hestia repeated Daryl's name, and Merle clapped a hand to his brother's shoulder and squeezed. All around him people were beginning to look in his direction, as his neighbours and colleagues found him in the crowd. This drew the attention of the Peacekeepers who immediately stepped forward, their guns raised threateningly.
In a dream-like haze he was pushed through the crowd. The already warm District 11 air suddenly felt too hot and too oppressive, but he swallowed his fear and pushed it way down inside himself. He wouldn't allow the cameras to see any weakness, and even though he could feel himself shaking as the Peacekeepers escorted him up to the stage, he kept his jaw set and his hands clenched into tight fists.
As he stepped up on stage he looked at Carol Peletier, and for a brief moment his resolve weakened. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face tear-streaked. The sight broke his heart.
The Mayor stepped forward once more to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason, but Daryl wasn't listening. He looked out over the sea of people who would all be watching him in relief, grateful that they weren't the ones being sent to their death. He glanced back over his shoulder at Carol; she looked as lost and hopeless as he felt, and for a second they made eye contact as she mouthed the words, "I'm so sorry."
It was his nineteenth birthday. Nineteen was traditionally the most celebrated birthday in District 11; it meant that you had survived every Reaping, and were safe from the Hunger Games from now on. Merle had managed to procure him a bottle of some hideously strong liquor from the black market to celebrate with his friends, and he knocked back several gulps of the burning liquid. He immediately coughed at the foreign sensation, as his friends laughed and clapped him hard on the back. A pleasant warmth started to spread out from his stomach to the rest of his body, making him giddy, and his limbs heavy.
And that's when he saw her. He had no idea why she was so far away from Victor's Village, back in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the District, but there she was. Carol Fairbain. The woman who occupied a great deal of his waking thoughts for several years. He fell silent and watched her intently for a few moments.
His friends couldn't help but notice that he had become distracted and they followed his line of sight.
"Go talk to her," insisted Aaron, one of his closest friends.
Normally he'd tell his friends to get lost, but the alcohol running through his system gave him a false sense of self-confidence. He knocked back another swig before handing the bottle to Aaron, climbing unsteadily to his feet, and walking over to her.
"Hey," he said, immediately regretting it when she looked straight in his direction. He couldn't hold her gaze and looked down at his scuffed shoes, kicking at the dry, dusty ground.
"Hey," she said.
"You lost?"
"No," she said. "Just out for a walk if it's all the same with you."
"Shit," he said, feeling his face flood with color. "I didn't mean…Just that…You aint from round here, and it's late and—"
"Actually, I am from round here."
"Yeah, I know," he said. "I mean… You're a long way from your home now, and—"
"I'm also pretty good at taking care of myself," she interrupted, a half smile uplifting the corners of her mouth.
"Yeah, I guess so," he chuckled, falling silent as he desperately sought something else to say to her. "It's my birthday," he added, inwardly cringing at how childish that sounded.
"Well, happy birthday," she said. "What's your name?"
"Daryl. Daryl Dixon."
"Happy birthday, Daryl Dixon."
"You want a drink? We got enough to share."
Carol looked over his shoulder at his group of friends, who were all watching the interaction eagerly. "You want to get me drunk?" she asked. "And then what? You want to screw around?"
He was growing redder by the second. "Pfft. Stop it," he mumbled, as he chewed on the edge of his thumbnail.
"I'm sorry," she said as she began to laugh, a warm and genuine sound. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
He shrugged, and didn't stop chewing on his thumbnail—a bad habit he'd had since childhood. "Aint embarrassed," he lied, knowing full well that he'd have walked away from this conversation right at the start if it wasn't for the surfeit of alcohol in his system.
She nodded and looked over her shoulder, a curious expression on her face, as if she was worried that she was being followed. "I should probably go," she said. "It was nice talking to you."
"You want me to walk you home?" he asked hopefully.
"No," she replied, just a little too quickly. "I'll be fine. Thank you."
"Another time maybe? If you want to go for a walk again, maybe we can go together?"
"No," she replied, looking over her shoulder once again. "I don't think it's a good idea. I'm so sorry."
"I aint a creep or nothin'."
"I can tell," she replied. "You're very sweet. That's why it has to be no." She reached up to cup his face and pulled him towards her, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Daryl ignored the whoops and cheers from his friends behind him, focusing entirely on the tingling patch of skin where her soft lips had brushed against him. "Stay safe, ok?"
"I made it to nineteen," he grinned. "My brother said I'm like a cat with all nine lives."
"I hope so," she said, sadly.
The Panem anthem broke through his thoughts. Ordinarily he would be made to shake the hand of his District partner, but Sophia was Reaped from an entirely different checkpoint, and so he stood before the crowds alone. As soon as the anthem ended he was marched off the stage and straight into the Justice Building.
He was taken to a rich, luxurious room, with thick pile carpets and the most comfortable looking sofa he had ever seen. The door was closed behind him and he was left to his own devices. Despite the obvious coziness and opulence, never had he felt so uncomfortable. Even without his impending death sentence hanging over his head, he would have hated to be amongst so much unnecessary wealth. Everything about the place screamed Capitol.
He still hadn't yet sat down when the door opened. Daryl caught a brief glimpse of the two Peacekeepers outside as Merle walked in.
"You ok, little bro?"
Daryl shrugged. There was nothing to say.
"I got somethin' for ya," he said, and he held up a worn leather vest, with fraying angel wings stitched onto the back. It was Merle's prized possession. He had never had any qualms about punching Daryl if he borrowed it. And now he was giving it away…
"I aint takin' this from ya," said Daryl.
"You gonna take it, and you gonna wear it, and I'm gonna be with ya. Aint no one gonna look out for ya like me, baby brother."
Merle held the vest out towards him, and eventually Daryl took it, running his fingertips lightly over the fraying stitching of the faded wings. He slipped it on over the top of his shirt, and it became a comforting weight as he breathed in the familiar and warm scent.
"Thanks," he mumbled, and his breathing began to hitch.
"Now don't you go gettin' all upset on me. You aint no pussy. You go out there and you show them what you made of, and you come home. You got this, baby brother. Don't you forget. Aint no one can kill a Dixon, but a Dixon."
Merle placed a hand on the back of Daryl's neck and pulled him forward into a tight embrace. They stayed together in silence until the door reopened and Merle was summoned away by the Peacekeepers.
"Remember what I said, little bro," said Merle as the Peacekeepers pulled him out of the door. "You got this."
Shortly after he was put in a car and driven to the train station, which was swarmed with television cameras. Capitol reporters tried to gain his attention, but he had already decided that they weren't going to get a thing from him. He kept his head down and barged through the reporters and photographers, only looking up again once he was safely on the train.
Ordinarily the train pulled away from the station the moment the tributes were aboard, but as they still had to wait for Sophia Peletier to arrive, the train remained stationary. Daryl was shown to his private chambers aboard the train; there was an enormous double bedroom with a Kingsize bed, en suite bathroom, and a comfortable sitting room. Just the bedroom on its own was bigger by far than the entire house he shared with Merle.
"Help yourself to anything in here," said Hestia as she showed him around. "Feel free to take a bath or a shower, and there are plenty of clean clothes in the drawers. This is your home from home for now. Dinner will be served in the dining car an hour from the moment we start to move. I'll come to collect you when it's ready."
As she left she pulled the door closed behind her, and he immediately panicked at the idea of being locked in somewhere. He raced to the door, and yanked at the handle, expecting to find it had been locked. He was therefore surprised to find that the door opened immediately. Hestia turned back towards him, a look of vague curiosity on her face. "Yes?" she asked. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Nothin'," he replied sheepishly, heading back into his own rooms.
He perched on the edge of the bed, and dropped his head into to his hands. Never in his life had he expected to be in such a dire situation. He was being sent to his death. And if he didn't die, it would mean the definite death of a little girl, the daughter of the woman he had always harbored feelings for.
After a few minutes he began to have a look around. As Hestia had said, there were several changes of clothing neatly folded in the drawers, but he refused to dress up like their little puppet. No. If he was going to be forced to play their games, he at least refused to play by their rules. He wandered into the bathroom and turned on the taps. "Holy shit," he breathed, as hot water came cascading from the series of showerheads in the ceiling. He had never had hot running water in his life. He started to unbutton his shirt then immediately changed his mind. Scrubbing up just for the Capitol was the same as dressing up for them, and he refused to do it. Instead he lay back on the enormous bed and waited in silence. After a few minutes the train began to move, but Daryl stayed perfectly still until Hestia finally knocked at his door.
She looked up and down at him in condescending disappointment when she realised that he had neither washed nor changed. With her lips tightly pursed, she said., "Follow me, then."
As soon as he entered the dining cart, he drew the attention of every other occupant, and felt himself grow red under their appraising stares. As well as Hestia, the other four District 11 Victors were already present. Carol and Sophia were nowhere to be seen.
The food in the dining cart was already laid out, and despite his resolution to reject everything expected of him, his stomach growled. Never in his life had he seen such a feast. There were tureens of thick, steaming vegetable soup with soft warm bread and butter, meat stews made with actual beef, not the usual squirrel or rat that he was used to, and fruit dishes piled high with fresh peaches.
Hestia offered him one of these with another of her condescending smiles. "I bet you've always wondered what these are like," she said. "It's one of the wonderful things about being chosen. Even though it's only for a little while, you get to experience all the glorious things the Capitol has to offer."
Daryl took the proffered peach and shoved it in his pocket. The penalty for stealing fruit from the trees was harsh, and it was true that most people in District 11 had probably never tasted the fruit they spent their lives harvesting. But Daryl wasn't like most people, and he and Merle had certainly had their fill on their many hunting trips. He was far more interested in the food that wasn't readily available to him, and loaded a plate up with beef stew, fresh, buttered vegetables, roasted potatoes, and as much bread as he could carry.
After taking a seat at the mahogany dining table he looked around at the rest of the cart; neither Carol nor Sophia had shown up yet. As if she could read his mind, Seeder said, "Carol and Sophia are eating alone. I'm sure you understand."
He nodded and focused entirely on his plate, blocking out the inane chatter from Hestia, and the words of encouragement from the other Victors, and could not help but feel a little disappointed that Carol wasn't with them. Immediately he mentally scolded himself for having such a selfish thought. Of course mother and daughter would want to be together, away from everyone else.
Very soon he had eaten far more than his fill, and was feeling a little ill as a result of it. He wasn't used to such rich food, and in such abundance too. His brain felt heavy and sluggish just as Carol appeared in the dining cart at last. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks tear streaked. He fought the urge to reach out to her and brush the tears away.
"Where is Sophia?" asked Hestia. "She's such a charming looking girl, I was really hoping to get to know her better."
"She won't be joining us tonight," said Carol in a flat tone.
"She ok?" asked Daryl.
Carol stared at Daryl long and hard. "She's a young child being sent to her death."
He nodded and didn't say anything. What was there to say?
"She's asleep," added Carol, quickly wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. "I gave her something to help her relax."
"You must be pretty nervous yourself," said Cane, District 11's latest Victor. The young man had won the 93rd Hunger Games. "But we've got a good team here. Give the Capitol what they want and the sponsorship will roll in."
"I aint doin' what they want," he muttered, refusing to look up at any of them.
"But surely you don't want to die?" chuckled Hestia.
He shrugged. "Don't make a difference what I want. If they wanna kill me they'll find a way."
Hestia clicked her tongue irritably. Perhaps she was used to frightened children kowtowing to her every word, but Daryl wasn't one of them.
"Well," she said with an obnoxious smile, as she tried to regain control. "How about we watch the other Reapings? See who we're up against?"
Daryl scowled at her use of the word 'we.' As if she considered herself to be somehow on their side in this horror show. But she was right in this instance, at least. He wanted to get a look at the competition.
They moved through to a different train cart, one filled with plush sofas and more tables groaning under the weight of fresh fruit, cakes, and pastries. The wave of nausea he felt at the sight of even more food threatened to overcome him. Images of the kids in his neighborhood, skeletally thin and lucky to get two meagre meals in a day flashed through his mind, and the hatred he felt for the Capitol intensified.
After pouring everyone a glass of a smooth alcohol that was entirely unlike the rough, burning liquor that could be purchased on the black market in 11, Hestia pressed a button on a remote, and an enormous screen on the wall flickered into life.
From District 1 the male tribute was a guy in his late twenties or early thirties named Gareth. At first glance he seemed wholly unremarkable, but for a split second there was a look in his eyes that spoke of a deeper sadism. It was a look that was reflected in his District partner, a young girl named Lizzie who, like Sophia, scarcely seemed old enough to be Reaped at all. But unlike Sophia, this girl didn't seem in the least bit worried. Daryl figured it must be the brainwashing that came from living in one of the Career Districts.
District 2's tributes were exactly what Daryl would have expected. All muscle and not a single ounce of fear or humanity. The male tribute, Negan, gave a speech about the honor of being selected, how he had been unable to volunteer as a kid due to circumstances beyond his control, and how he would bring glory back to District 2. Daryl rolled his eyes halfway through the ludicrous display and switched off.
Very few of the other tributes caught his eye. There was some undeniable tragedy; the skinny, pregnant woman from District 7 certainly didn't deserve to be there—although the obvious anger in her District partner made Daryl immediately wary of him. The old man and his teenaged daughter from District 9 surely deserved better as well.
He turned away from the screen as it showed the District 11 Reapings, and only barely glanced at the screen for District 12; the skinny, dark-skinned eighteen year old boy and young blonde woman looked as terrified as every tribute from 12 always did.
"Well," said Hestia, clapping her hands together. "I don't know how everyone else is feeling, but Daryl, I think you at least might be in with a chance."
Carol slammed her glass down on the table with a loud bang and stormed away. He watched her depart then scowled at Hestia, before jogging down the train carriage to catch up with her.
He found her at the very back of the train, leaning on the railings outside and smoking a cigarette.
"You got a spare one of those?" he asked her.
She offered him the packet and he took one of the pre-rolled cigarettes out. Tobacco was rare enough in District 11, but low quality hand-rolling tobacco could be bought on the black market if you had something good enough to trade in return. He'd never had a pre-rolled one in his life.
"Thanks," he said as he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"They'll kill you, you know."
"Think that's the least of my worries right now."
She chuckled at his joke and leaned her elbows back down on the balustrade. Her expression was impossible to read as she gazed out at the ever-changing scenery.
"I'm real sorry," he said to break the silence between them.
"For what?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Everythin'. Ya shouldn't be goin' through this. Your little girl…she shouldn't be goin' through this. And that Capitol bitch…she had no right to say that."
"Why not?" said Carol coldly. "It's true."
He took a long, deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Still don't make it right. And ya never know, she might make it out."
She made a dismissive noise and returned her attention to her cigarette. And for a moment, she let her mask slip, and he was able to see the despair she felt. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, to tell her that everything was going to be ok, but how could he when he hardly believed it himself?
He swallowed heavily, as his mind desperately sought out a topic of conversation, anything that could try to distract her from her pain, even if only for a moment.
"Ya know, I'm surprised they let us out here," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Anyone ever try and jump?"
"Impossible," she said. "Look."
She reached her hand forward but seemed to stop in mid-air. Daryl did the same. It was completely impassable, as if the air itself was somehow solid.
"Force field," she said. "No one escapes."
He nodded and continued to watch the blur of the landscape as it flew past. Of course they would have thought of that. The Capitol wouldn't allow their tributes to commit suicide. Not unless it was televised.
Carol finished her cigarette and dropped it to the ground, grinding it out under the heel of her boot, then she turned to face Daryl.
"I'm sorry for everything too," she said quietly. "You don't deserve this either."
There was a sincerity in her voice that broke him. And he remembered the first time he ever met her, and how he had wanted to see her smile. More than that, to be the cause of her smile. Well, maybe there was a way to make it happen. Even if he wouldn't be around to see it.
"Look," he said. "I aint fool enough to think I'm gonna be gettin' any help. Not when you got your little girl to worry about instead. And she don't deserve none of this. So I'm gonna do my best to look after her. She's gonna come home. She's gonna grow up with her momma. You'll see."
There was a moment where Daryl swore that he could see a flash of fear in her eyes. But it was gone almost as soon as he spotted it. "Thank you," she said, and she reached towards him, pulling his head towards her, and placed the gentlest of kisses to his forehead. "Thank you. You should get some sleep. Make sure you're ready for the Capitol tomorrow."
Despite the immense comfort of his personal chambers, Daryl didn't get a single minute of sleep. He'd never had his own room, having shared with Merle since the day he was born, and he half-wondered if it was the strange loneliness keeping him awake as much as the fear of the Games. As he rolled onto his side in the darkness, clutching the soft, feather comforter to his chest, he snorted softly to himself. He never thought he'd miss the sound of Merle's snores.
Once the sun had risen enough to justify him being out of bed, Daryl redressed in his own clothes and wandered back to the dining cart. It was already set up with baskets of fresh bread and butter, sweet pastries glazed with syrup, platters of cold meat and cheese, and bowls of fresh fruit. The sight infuriated him. He had seen more food in less than a day than most families in 11 survived on in a month. And a part of him hated himself for partaking in it, but not enough to stop him from placing a little of everything on a plate.
He walked back through to the train cart filled with the plush sofas and sat down to eat his breakfast. After a few minutes he became aware of a presence leaning against the doorframe.
"Haven't you showered yet?" asked Carol without any preamble.
He bit into the flaky, sweet pastry, and was surprised to discover it was filled with a strange, sugary paste. He couldn't quite decide whether he liked it or not. "What the hell is this stuff?" he asked Carol, ignoring her question.
"Marzipan," she answered.
"What the hell is that?"
"You answer my question first."
"Why should I?"
"Why should you answer me, or why should you shower?"
"You answer my question first."
She narrowed her eyes at him but couldn't help the slightest of smirks that appeared on her face. "Stop being obtuse, Daryl. It's made from almonds and sugar. Now your turn."
"Why should I shower?"
"Because it's important to keep up appearances. Even for you. And besides," she added, and the slight smirk on her face grew even larger. "If you don't do it on your own, I'll be forced to hose you down."
"Pfft. Like to see ya try."
She gazed at him, an odd, pitying expression in her eyes. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol in a little under four hours," she said. "And I'm trying to help. I'm not your enemy, Daryl." She offered him a sad half-smile before backing out of the train cart and leaving him alone.
He pushed the remainder of his food aside, his appetite gone as quickly as it had arrived. He wasn't dressing up for the Capitol. But he would at least try. For her.