AN: Sorry for the brief delay. I was working on some other fics for Les Miserables, which will be out soon.

Chapter 11 - Trish - Wake Up

I sat on some sort of fancy chair, gold with carved arms and spindly feet and a high back. Kids around my age, some younger and some older, some girls and some boys, approached me. They bowed and presented me with gifts. As I unwrapped them, I noticed that some sort of red liquid spilled from the packages, and when I opened the first few, I found that the kids had given me - parts. Parts of people, still bloody. An arm, a leg, a head, all with signs of damage and looking like they'd been violently hacked off. I backed away and said that I couldn't accept it, and the chair started to get smaller and smaller as the kids crowded me, their bloody hands and crazed eyes obvious as they got closer. They approached me and made me accept the gifts, and as I took them, the chair got bigger again, sturdier, more ornate and more comfortable.

"Trish? Trish, dear?" I awoke to a terrible smell, the face of a total stranger hovering above me, her face blurring and moving a little. "It's okay. It's fine."

I groaned. "That smells awful."

"Smelling salts," the woman replied. "I'm so sorry. Do you remember what happened?"

Did I remember what happened? How could I possibly forget? It had been the most terrifying moment of my life. Yet more were certainly going to top it soon. "Yes. I was drawn for the Games, and -" I trailed off. "Where am I?"

"Your apartments in the Training Centre. Training starts tomorrow, but don't worry about that yet. First, get comfortable and relax." The woman seemed to realise what she'd said, cleared her throat, and rushed to add, "As much as you can. For now, we're going to get you a good healthy dinner and introduce you to your team, okay?"

I wanted to say that no, it wasn't really okay, I'd passed out because this was moving way too fast, and what did she mean training was tomorrow, and who was she anyways, and I'd jsut had an awful dream - but somehow I didn't know if I should say that to a stranger, as much as I wanted to get that off my chest and get some reassurance. What do you call something that you imagine while you're passed out? It's not a dream, exactly, because fainting or getting knocked out is certainly not sleeping. It seems a lot like a dream, though. This one was like a dream, but not like one of my dreams - I had never had nightmares, because I'd never been that worried. I guessed the Games had kind of bounced off me before then, and that was the extent of disturbing things I'd seen. Well, there was the wreckage of the Capitol - but twisted steel and scared refugees hadn't gotten me either. My brain was usually like a calm pond, not a ripple on its surface. Well, that was over. The 'dream' - let's just call it that - that I'd had while knocked out had made no freaking sense; but when do dreams make sense? No matter how weird, it was still unnerving. But still, I couldn't get the words out to tell the stranger all this, so I just made an unhappy little uh-huh noise.

"Well, I'm Melinda Clare. I'll be your escort and mentor for these Games," she said, a smile never leaving her pretty face. Every bit of her glossy black hair was tied back in the bun that was the style now, and she had a lovely floral dress. But she didn't accessorize much - her clothing was way too subtle to really have full-on style. She seemed kind, though, and I was glad to have a nice mentor. "Why don't you get changed and cleaned up, then come out to dinner?"

I nodded, and she gave my hand one last comforting squeeze then left. I did as she suggested; found a great outfit waiting for me, in the best shade of hot pink, and splashed some cool water on face to make myself wake up. No luck: it didn't work at all. With a fresh coat of makeup, I was ready to go.

There were three of us for dinner: myself, Melinda, and another girl. I decided to introduce myself, since it never hurts to be nice. "Hi, I'm-"

"Yeah, I know who you are. Trish Snow."

"Yes." I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised; Melinda would have told her who her roommate would be. But did she have to interrupt me? "What's your name?"

"Brienne. Jameson."

"Where are you from?"

"Outer Capitol." Those were the suburbs around the city, and they were usually home to Peacekeeper officials' families, professionals like bankers, service providers like stylists and the shopkeepers who ran the Capitol's business. Capitolites from modest families, who had to work for a living. It was nothing like the Districts, though.

Brienne didn't elaborate, so there was a long silence. "Nice weather lately."

"Hmm."

"I like the sunny weather."

"Mmm." Another silence. Did she have hearing troubles, or didn't she like conversation? I know I tend to talk when I'm nervous, but it does feel way better than a cold silence. At least talking made you feel less alone.

Well, when all else fails - "Want to hear a joke?"

"Not really." Brienne was completly expressionless, as if trying to hide some frustration. "It's not really the time for jokes."

Luckily, Melinda walked in and sat down, and the soup was soon served as I told her the joke and chatted to her about the weater. Brienne listened and even smiled at the joke, but didn't say a word more.

"Well, now it's time to talk business," said Melinda, with a look on her face like she'd rather not. "I should catch you up, Trish."

I'd have preferred she didn't, but I listened anyways. She handed both of us a sheet of the Games schedule; Brienne studied it intensely, and I only gave it a small glance. It turned my stomach to even think about what was coming.

"For you, Trish, there's a sheet with names and photos of all the Tributes." There they were, in glossy colour photos, all twenty-four of them lined up with descriptions of how they'd acted at the Reaping. I was on it. It wasn't specially made up for me, I realised - this was a betting guide. I had used similar ones to keep track of the Games in previous years, striking out Tributes who were killed and cutting out pictures of favourites. My stomach turned at the thought, and I pushed it away, uneasy with the thought that soon, people would be betting on my survival. Or death. It had seemed so normal and so fun to bet on the Games, but now I saw...

"Not going to look?" asked Brienne, in the end. " Could I have a sheet like that? You want to see who your opponents are. Think about alliances."

"Actually," added Melinda, "I do have a bit of an alliance set up for you girls. I know it's early, but there are some, uh, special circumstances this year. And they'll benefit you both, especially you, Trish."

Whatever. Couldn't I just die in peace? "Who's in it?" My tone showed exactly how unexcited I was.

Melinda took the paper and started pointing at people. "Yann Belliard, here. And Brendan Greymark. We're looking for Melanite Knox, but you'll have to get to know him yourself and get him to join." As she flipped through the pages, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone familiar. No. Couldn't be - my luck's not that awful.

"May I see that? Yes, yes it was. My good friend was on the list. It couldn't be - why this? Why both of us? I had known this girl since grade school. She was so sweet, so nice...

"Sadie. I need Sadie Dayton to be in the alliance. I want to know someone."

Brienne snorted. "You know only one person lives, right?" She gave Melinda a weird look as she said this. Maybe she thought I was crazy. "You can't save her."

Melinda sat back, a thoughtful look on her face. "How badly do you want her?"

"I'm making it a condition of my joining the alliance." What have I got to lose? I tried my best poker face, and probably just looked ridiculous.

"I'm sure it can be arranged. After all, you're very important to this alliance."