Yeek! Happy new year! Sorry for the slow updates! D:

Chapter by Maze Hidden.

Sorry for the crappy chapter. Hopefully, the next one will be better!

Disclaimer: We don't own GMW or THG, but we do own the fantastic reviews! XD

The next morning, I wake up with the worst alarm noise existing.

"Up, up, up!" Isadora Smackle yells at my door. Her robotic, upbeat (yes, Isadora Smackle actually makes it work) tone reminds me of a very stiff spring. "You've got a very, very big day coming up!"

I don't care if I'm looking like roadkill or I haven't brushed my teeth yet. I just need her to shut the fuck up.

I slam open the door, and Isadora recoils in surprise.

"I'M COMING!" I yell at her face, and I slam the door shut. A sudden wave of fatigue overcomes me, and I bury my face in my hands, staggering towards the bathroom. I rub my eyes tiredly as the last day's events hit me. Had I seriously been eating District 12 bakery bread with Farkle just this morning on our spot? If I want to cry, this is the time. However, no tears come out of my eyes.

I stomp into the bathroom to clean myself up.

~.~.~

I have never taken a shower before. Don't judge me for that; I never had enough money for water—when I wanted to clean myself, I'd always taken a big bucket to the Seam well and had brought water home from it. Then I'd take a shallow bath.

Apparently, the citizens of the Capitol have a different way of cleaning themselves up. The shower in my train room has a series of complicated buttons, in different shapes, sizes, and colors. I curiously press a yellow, lightning-shaped one.

Extremely hot water—that I can't help but describe as scorching—comes down somewhere above my head, hard. It's like being hit by a car from above, only the car is liquid, and it splashes down my sides, burning my flesh red as it exists by the drain.

Painful.

Yeah, that's my first impression of a shower.

For the next thirty minutes, I prop around the buttons, carefully, avoiding the too-bright ones or the funny-shaped ones. I pressed a normal-looking round button a few minutes ago and managed to get the showerhead running a soft drizzle on my head. A few more buttons and shampoo drops down on my head in a fluid plop!

Being in a shower is pretty sweet (when you push the right buttons). It's like being in warm, clean spring rain.

Besides, when I step out of it, the High-Tec blow-driers dry my body instantly, and my hair is bouncing on my back into soft curls without even a tangle. (It hasn't been in that state since I was fourteen…)

I actually feel kind of upbeat by the shower—despite its rocky start—so I decide to upgrade my wardrobe a bit. Not the freakish rainbow-colored-wig-hair or implant-false-horns-into-your-forehead or big-puffy-Cinderella-dress-with-heels kind Capitol clothes, but clothes similar to mine (ripped jeans, tees with stuff like 'the world seems fakey' written on, lots of leather)—just cleaner. (My clothes hasn't been in that state since I was fourteen also…)

I put on the fresh clothes, and saunter out of the room, pleased by the thought that I'm really late and Isadora would be certainly ticked off.

I march into the dining cart, and I'm immediately met by Isadora's scornful glare. Well, I guess I'd asked for it.

But something else catches my eyes, and it surprises me—I don't know in a what way, though—that Shawn and Lucas are sitting on the huge dining table, eating and talking. Socializing. I always knew that Lucas was good with people, but getting Shawn Hunter to talk genuinely with him, that was a new achievement, not only for him but for the entire people in the district.

Maybe yesterday, Shawn wasn't too drunk after all (Or maybe his brain had gotten so used to the liquor, it runs ordinarily after drinking).

I walk toward them, neither of the two has noticed me yet. I can hear Lucas stifling a laugh at something Shawn said as I get closer.

"How do you find shelter?" Lucas is saying, leaning forward.

"Well," Shawn laughs sarcastically. "Find shelter where you won't die. That's how you do it."

Then, he grabs a bottle and brings it to his lips, emptying good three-quarters of the liquid and slamming the glass on the table with a satisfied sigh.

"How do you find shelter?" I abruptly ask on a whim, seeing Shawn so unhelpful and mocking had made my stomach boil a bit.

The two men snap their head at me, and Lucas flashes me a warm smile, while Shawn, quite the opposite, gives me a scowl.

"Well, well, ain't it our tiny kiddo. You're late." He says at me accusingly.

I ignore the tiny jab. "Shower problems. Too many buttons." That earns me a sympathetic nod from Lucas. "So, how do you find shelter?"

Shawn waves my question aside lazily. "Pass me the jam, kiddo."

"Yeah, you never answered my question properly. How do we find shelter in the arena?" Lucas joins in, frowning at Shawn, who starts to reach for another bottle.

As his hands curl around the glass, something in Lucas snaps, and the glass is suddenly in his hand, away from where Shawn can reach.

"I think that's enough of that," Lucas growls, looming over the table.

I forgot that he had it in him. He was usually so gentle and sweet, it's hard to keep it in mind that he sometimes lashes out like that. I saw him in this kind of state three times in my whole (which isn't much since I'm probably going to die in a few weeks) life. It does not end well.

I see that Isadora and Shawn are looking at him in surprise at his outburst.

Then, in a flash of an eye, Lucas is sprawled in his seat, and a small bruise is starting to form on his left chin. My eyebrows shoot up, and I look at Shawn, who is reaching for the discarded bottle rolling side to side on the table with red knuckles.

Shawn can actually throw a punch? But luckily, the answer seems to be no, since Lucas' condition doesn't look so bad.

Seeing Lucas pissed and bruised and holding an ice pack to his chin triggers something inside me, and on a sudden impulse, I grab the knife beside my dish and stab the table between Shawn's middle and ring finger.

I let go of the knife, and it quivers a bit at the force of the contact with the table. Shawn freezes completely.

Cold silence swarms around us. Lucas and Isadora look at me with various emotions. Trepidation, admiration, and worry, etc. Shawn and I eye each other wearily to see who'll make the first move.

Finally, after what seems like forever, Shawn withdraws his hand carefully and plucks the knife free with it. The dent it has made is deep, it goes straight through the table mat and in the wood. I feel oddly proud of myself; what I've done is pretty impressive, judging by the fact that I did it with a dining knife.

Well, hooray for me, because I'm in trouble.

But Shawn surprises me, or everyone, by examining us with shrewd eyes, rather than offending me. "What is this?" He says, but it isn't his usual drunken slur. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters for this year?"

Lucas and I turn our heads to meet each other's eyes, which is clouded with confusion. What was that supposed to mean?

"Stand up," orders Shawn. When Lucas and I just stare at him, he says in an annoyed tone, "I'm not gonna spank you or anything for fuck's sake. Stand up!"

Glancing at each other uncertainly, we do as we're told.

It feels damn fantastic when Shawn walks around us, poking and prodding our bodies, examining our faces, saying things like,

"Muscles…Actual muscles…" and "…looks pretty fit to me…" and "…maybe, maybe…"

Finally, he stands up to face both of us. He addresses Lucas first. "You, put down the ice pack."

Lucas frowns. "But—"

"Now."

Lucas looks quizzical, but he lowers the ice.

"Now the others will think that you've had a fight with another tribute beforehand. Might win a few sponsors from that. Or better, fear from the other tributes."

Lucas' frown gets deeper. "But it's illegal!"

Shawn gives him a crooked grin that sends a shiver down my spine. "Even better," he says with a curl of his lips.

"Now you," he says, turning towards me. He leans to the table to pick up another dining knife. "Throw this." Shawn pushes the knife in my right palm and points toward the opposite wall about fifty feet away.

As I ready my stance, I can't help but think, Wow, the wallpaper is incredibly tacky.

In a series of practiced motions, I whirl my knife at the wall.

As soon as the material leaves me, I know that it's a great shot, even for me. It sticks at the little gap in the seam of two wallpapers, making me look way better I am.

Stunned silence hangs around the room, and I can hear Shawn give a satisfied grunt.

"Okay. So, here's the deal."

Lucas and I look at each other with raised eyebrows. "And stop communicating with your eyes like that. It's weird."

We both manage to shrug at the same time, which causes Shawn to roll his eyes.

"Seeing that you two aren't entirely impossible, my deal is, I keep sober long enough to help you. But, you have to follow my orders. Do as exactly as I say. No but's and no no's. Deal?"

This is way better than I had hoped for. Shawn mentoring us could save our lives. But can I trust him? I study his watery blue eyes to see if he was just buzz-talking, but by the seriousness and maybe—hope? –in his eyes makes me realize that he is dead serious.

"Deal," Luas says quickly and holds out his hand for Shawn to shake. However, the man just stares at the hand as if it has asked him to do a cartwheel or something.

Lucas hastily withdraws his hand.

"Yeah, deal," I say, as Shawn's gaze turns on me.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm going to help you save your motherfucking lives."

~.~.~

The train nears the Capitol, and I run up to the window to see the infamous view of it. For the last few hours, we've earned a few living tricks from Shawn Hunter—our mentor. The words still taste foreign in my mouth. Shawn Hunter, our mentor. Not the only living victor of District 12, not the drunk man of the Seam.

He's kept his promise. It pains him to stay sober apparently, but he remains a good distance from the liquor stands.

Shawn's advised us how not to join in the Cornucopia Bloodbath (the Hater Games start with the tributes circled around the enormous golden horn—the Cornucopia—which keeps weapons and essential supplies in it. The Careers are vicious to reach there, and the Cornucopia Bloodbath usually knocks out 9-11 tributes which had been slow to run.) or not to start a fire in the dark or how we should find water right after we've run away from the bloodbath.

Also, he's told us not to defy our stylists' will, no matter how fucking shitty or crazy it is.

I guess I should explain the stylists.

In the first day of the Games, the tributes are to be in an opening parade, each district tributes on a cart pulled by horses and wearing costumes representing their districts. The stylists are people who design the outfits for the tributes, and each tribute gets his/her own stylist.

For the opening parade, District 12—coal—usually wears coal-mining outfits (because that's so creative), or on worse years (when the stylists feel uncreative at all), naked and covered in coal dust. That and my stubbornness is probably the reason why Shawn ordered us not to stand against our stylists.

The event of the opening ceremony, presenting the tributes of the year, helps the Capitol's betting system—the night's when sponsors decide who they want to help survive during the Games, and the 'important people' running the country bets money on their favorable tributes.

Children are about to die, and people bet on who would survive.

Again, these Games are so fucked up.

I frown to myself as I look out at the window. Gigantic buildings I had never seen before looms in front of my eyes, clad in blinding lights, and I have trouble breathing. Is this the Capitol? Whoa.

"I know, right?" Lucas says beside me, and I'm surprised a bit. I've been thinking out loud.

"This is all so fucked up…" I mutter suddenly, startling both myself and Lucas. Suddenly rumors about the Capitol having all those secret cameras hidden around everywhere pops into my mind, and I look around worriedly as I quickly add in an unsure voice, "I mean, I didn't know buildings these tall were possible."

Lucas manages to get out a realistic chuckle at this, even though his eyes are darting around nervously, undoubtedly because of the same reason as me. "Sure, it's new to us, considering that the landscape in District 12 is flatter than Isadora's jokes."

That almost gets a genuine laugh out of me. Isadora doesn't joke. Or I think she doesn't.

"Yeah…"

Our eyes all of a sudden meet, and I swear Lucas' softens a bit. We stand like that for a while, staring at each other's eyes, thousands of words and feelings running through our minds.

My breath hitches in my throat as Lucas' eyes start radiating warmth, and he raises his hand a bit as if to reach out to me. However, he stops as he thinks better of it.

"God, how am I going to kill you…?" Lucas abruptly says, eyes saddening, voice so gentle. Then he sighs, shakes his head, and walks out of the dining cart.

This happens all very quickly, and my mind has trouble wrapping around it. I don't even know what to think, or how to feel about what he'd said. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest, and I let go of the breath I didn't even know I was holding.

I stand still at the window for a moment, looking out to the bright Capitol streets with dazed eyes.

What the hell, Friar?