A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reading! Something sweet and bubbly for those who review!

To: kalisfandomstories1004: Thank you! Didn't send the sneak peek, though, as this was posting in three-two-one...! But I'll get the next one out to you if you volunteer again! :)

The Quantum Bang finished posting all the Fix-It Fics yesterday, so that was quite exciting. I encourage you to check out the fantastic stories at QuantumBang dot O R G.

And . . . it's Prep Day in the Tributes' Tower, but Gale and Haymitch won't be IN the Tower. May the odds be ever in your favor.

Chapter Four: Prep Day

By the time Gale emerged from the shower in the morning, sunlight had burst brightly into his sleeping compartment. He dressed in what he considered to be among his best clothes, because they'd arrive in the Capitol shortly and he wanted to make sure he represented his District well. Black trousers, gray collarless shirt, heavy black vest that he left unbuttoned, though it fit him quite well either way. He looked serious, dangerous, and focused.

Haymitch was waiting for him outside his door. "Well, hey, it's sleepin' beauty," the older man drawled. "The kids are in the lounge already," he went on to say, eyeing him speculatively. "Dunno if they got the whole Accept your imminent demise message, though."

"The trainers will make sure they hear it loud and clear, I'm sure," Gale said on a sigh. "Where are we?"

"Train stopped overnight in Seven. That hadn't been the plan, but Johanna Mason—from the 71st Games, remember her?"

"Axes. The woman was like a Viking."

Haymitch nodded with a sharp snort. "Exactly. So, she's one of their Mentors, and apparently she was a bit hard to find after the Reaping." Seeing Haymitch's suggestively quirked eyebrow, Gale motioned for him to go on with the story. "Well, she's very well connected in Seven, and the people there'll do anything for her."

"I met her last March. She had an entourage," Gale commented, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Haymitch barked out a laugh. "Sounds about right! So, they found her and she wasn't, erm, ready to get on the train so we stuck around until she could be dragged aboard."

"Kicking and screaming?"

"That'll work for an explanation." Haymitch then leaned in closer, as if he were brushing something from Gale's shoulder. "She's with us."

Gale made an affirmative noise before pushing the other Mentor away. "Enough! Jeez, Haymitch. I did use a mirror."

"Oh, I can see that. Let's go scare the kids."

"I'm right behind you."

Oranges. He smelled oranges immediately upon entering the lounge in their car. There was a pitcher of orange juice, fresh oranges in a bowl, and even an orange-glazed pastry near to hand. Gale skipped all that and went straight for the coffee, offering half a smile to Katniss and Peeta. Oddly enough, they were dressed in the same outfits they'd had at the Reaping and Gale remembered how that had felt, last year, to get to the Capitol and all the shiny people there, while he was dressed in faded denim.

He caught Katniss's eye and lifted his chin in greeting. Even though it was just the four of them, he felt like he needed the practice. And he wanted to get Haymitch off his back for the next few days. And he didn't want Katniss to feel awkward or obliged or anything other than positive toward him.

"Why aren't you eating?" Haymitch demanded of the Tributes, crossing to the table and piling food on a plate. Mostly, the older man drank coffee with a splash of bourbon from a flask he'd had in a pocket. Blond hair looking as if it hadn't seen a comb in days, Haymitch gave off an entirely disreputable air. This was, the man had confirmed days before, a ruse, meant to make too-sharp Capitoline eyes focus elsewhere. It was still disheartening.

Especially when Gale could see Katniss and Peeta lose confidence and hope, right before his eyes.

Peeta cleared his throat. "We were waiting for you," he said in answer to Haymitch's loud question. "Trying to be polite, you know?'

"Polite?" Haymitch snorted and stabbed at a sausage patty with a butter knife to bring it to his plate. As he did so, Peeta took a seat opposite and started to serve himself. "No one's gonna win the Games by bein' polite, Peeta. So forget that."

"How are we going to win, then?" Katniss asked, sliding next to Peeta and also staring at Haymitch. Gale saw the Tributes exchange looks that seemed to indicate affirmation of one another.

"Like he did," Haymitch said, pointing his knife at Gale.

Peeta cocked his head and studied Gale, a furrow developing between his eyebrows. "So you should be talking to us, then. Tell us how you did it. Any advice?"

Gale opened his mouth but Haymitch jumped in with both bare feet. "He knew how to be ruthless, like I already told you. But he also knew how to be nice."

Katniss pushed out a loud breath. "Great. Nice and ruthless."

Peeta shot her a grin. "I'll be nice and you be ruthless."

The pair exchanged nods and then met Gale's gaze in tandem. He felt as if he'd lost his legs in there, somewhere, and was glad to be sitting down. "Nice and ruthless," he managed to repeat, wondering if this was Katniss's answer to his question from the night before. Was she rejecting him? Focusing on the Games first? Or was she more interested in Peeta than he'd ascertained?

Get your head out of the romance thing, Hawthorne, he admonished himself as he poured a cup of coffee and added some cream to it. Games first makes perfect sense. For everyone.

Peeta took a sip from his glass of orange juice. "We have to get Sponsors, right? To help us?"

"Yep," Gale answered, wordlessly asking Katniss to pass him the bacon platter. "Getting someone to send medicine if you're wounded would keep you alive."

"Or a canteen of water, or a few matches," Haymitch added before taking a bite out of a pastry. "They'll save your life," he went on, while chewing.

The other Mentor had lived alone too long, in Gale's estimation, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he tried to explain things just a bit. "You need to be strong, worthy of the support of a Sponsor. Most of them are just in it to watch the spectacle. You know this, both of you. You're old enough to have watched and remembered."

"I can't be…nice," Katniss said, her gaze piercing him with its combination of strength and vulnerability. "I, I don't make friends. Prim makes friends." She jerked her head to stare at the sofa in the lounging part of the lounge car.

"Our families are friends," Gale reminded her, wanting to reach for her hand as he had the night before, but knowing it would be a bad idea. "You do all right."

The train began to slow down noticeably and Peeta straightened his spine. "Are we there? Are we?" Without waiting for an answer, he pushed back his chair and all but bounded to the window. "Wow. This is amazing, Katniss. C'mere!" He beckoned, looking for all the world as if he was taking a holiday to the Capitol and not sentenced to a short, brief time as a Tribute.

Win or lose, this was no holiday for anyone.

Katniss eyed Peeta with obvious suspicion before rising slowly from her chair to join him at the window. "That's amazing," Gale heard her murmur.

Haymitch finished his coffee. "Hey, Effie will be back here in a minute."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He gestured for Gale to lean in. "Stick with Peeta today, all day. I'll stay with Katniss. It'll look…"

"Less like there's an inappropriate relationship, I get it."

No hint of inebriation lingered in Haymitch Abernathy's sharp gaze. "We still have to pick one, Hawthorne. And I don't know which one that's gonna be, yet." When Gale opened his mouth to protest, Haymitch glared at him. "Neither. Do. You."

"Well, good morning!" Effie Trinket burst into the room in a swirl of perfume. Roses, Gale thought. "Nice to see everyone up and smiling," she said, stepping quickly to the table, picking up an orange, and then joining Katniss and Peeta at the window. "Isn't it wonderful? I love coming home to the Capitol. It's so reassuring to see all we have done as a nation, don't you think?" She didn't give them time to answer but spun on one heel to face the Mentors. "Are we ready?" Eyeing the table, she shook her head, but Gale didn't know what she found to disapprove of; there was still food on it, and no one had stabbed the table, this year.

"That's mahogany!" she'd scolded him when he and Fern had had it with Haymitch's intoxication over breakfast last year.

"Staff will be getting your luggage, you two, so you focus on keeping our Tributes safe all the way to the Tower, all right?" Effie's color theme that morning was yellow, the color being painted around her eyes like a sunflower or something. It was disconcerting when she blinked with nervous rapidity. "Remember, no talking to anyone today," she added, spinning again to address Katniss and Peeta. "They're already talking about you."

Katniss frowned at the older woman. "Why?"

"Because of you, Katniss Everdeen! I've already heard that the two of you could have had your pick of Stylists, this year. It's so exciting!"

"Look!" Peeta called, his voice vibrating. "Look, we're here!"

The train slowed to a stop and Gale watched Peeta's face light up as he waved to the parasites—residents of the Capitol and all who were vacationing for the Hunger Games—with patent enthusiasm.

I have got to talk to him. Prepare him for the interview. They'll eat him alive.

"And since you're from District Twelve, you get the penthouse. Isn't that grand?" Effie gushed as she showed Katniss and Peeta around the suite they would all be sharing during the Games. After the Tributes went to the Arena, their team remained in the suite as long as they had a Tribute in the Games.

Haymitch rolled his eyes, trying his damnedest to banish the memories of so many teens having heard the same spiel. Whether it had been Effie or the older lady who had preceded her—Jonquil, he thought her name had been, a tired woman who wished only for the bottom of her own bottle—the words seemed to be the same every year.

But this year, there was Hawthorne. Well, he was doing his best to save the kid's ass again, this year. What the hell? Even when Haymitch had a Victor, he was still trying to keep 'em alive. Still, he did his best. He hated the Hunger Games with the fire of a thousand suns and he would do everything he could to stop them, even if it killed him.

He leaned against one of the plate glass windows of the main lounge in the penthouse. He would give that much to the Games organizers: the accommodations were impressive. There was once a custom, back before there was a Panem, that the condemned would get a last meal of their favorite foods. Or, at least, of really good food. On the presumption that even a criminal should get a good meal before they bought it, Haymitch guessed. Bet some murderer in that older world didn't get a whole penthouse and full spread of all of the best food known to mankind, though.

With a snort, he pushed himself from the wall. "Time's a wastin', Effie."

"Of course!" She eyed the kids and shooed Hawthorne out of the way. Which, Haymitch supposed, was all right. The young Mentor had turned into Mellark's shadow as soon as they left the train. Haymitch hadn't heard what they'd been saying—he'd been trailing behind Effie and Everdeen—but there'd been body language enough to go on. There was some initial hostility between them and he'd wanted to smack both of them on the back of the head. He'd bet his last bottle of white liquor that part was all about the girl. Man'd have to be blind not to see that.

But then, they'd smoothed it over and Hawthorne was pointing out the sights and whatnot all the way to the Tower. As they neared the elevator, he caught them in the middle of a discussion about the showers, by all the holies.

Lives on the line. Games coming up in a matter of days, not to mention the need for a near perfect interview, and they were talking about how the showers worked.

He needed another drink, soon. And then he wanted to pass out and not worry about any of them until the parade. He wouldn't get to, but a man could dream.

"Yeah, don't worry about what you're wearin'," Gale told Katniss and Peeta as the suite's door opened for the Prep Teams. Peeta had immediately tried smoothing the collar of his white shirt while Katniss had checked her buttons and the tie at the back of the faded blue dress. "They'll be taking you down to get cleaned up and then you'll meet with your Stylists."

"I've seen them on the broadcasts. Some of them have been around as long as I have," Katniss murmured. Gale didn't know if she'd moved closer to him on purpose, but he pretended not to notice that she had. "But I haven't seen these guys."

Peeta shifted uncomfortably. "You know they always send the new ones to our District."

"Yeah," Katniss said.

Gale put his hands on their shoulders so that he was clearly supporting both of them equally. "They did all right with me, last year. We had a different pair, but I am sure they'll do their best for you guys."

Effie—now in a sleek silver ensemble that actually didn't look half-bad, Gale guessed—performed enthusiastic introductions. "Ladies first, just like always! Katniss Everdeen, these lovely people are your Prep Team. They'll be getting you all fixed up for tonight! This is Flavius and this is Octavia. Now, run along and let them make you beautiful!" She all but pushed Katniss into Octavia's hands before motioning for the other pair to come forward. "And here's your team, Peeta! Here are Otho and Martina! I just know they'll have you spruced up in no time!" She giggled a little as the Prep Teams ushered Katniss and Peeta to the double doors.

Katniss shot him a grave look and mouthed, Beautiful? Me?

He grinned and nodded, adding a silent Amazing to his answer.

Effie hustled them out with her customary fluttering, her voice echoing over the many planes and angles of the foyer as the Prep Teams, Tributes, and Escort all hurried to the Preparation Level of the Tower. Remembering how intrusive it had felt to him the year before, Gale could only sigh.

His breath seemed too powerful in the silent suite. "Now what, boss?"

"Boss, am I? Never know it to watch you, Hawthorne." Haymitch stretched before collapsing onto one long line of the sectional sofa. The sofa was placed so that all those seated on all of its sections had a good view of the television screen. This would be their focus far too often during the next…well…until it was over. "Now what? Well, now we wait. You know they'll be getting the full treatment. Worse for the girls, as I have heard tell before."

Gale winced a bit and let himself collapse on another part of the sectional. His whole body was tense, every muscle ready to fight or run, it seemed to him. Add to that, the fierce need he felt to protect Katniss by staying away from her when all he wanted was to run away with her…

He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He blew out a breath. "Fern said it was pretty awful."

Haymitch scrubbed at his face with his hands, looking every month of his forty years. "Was glad for Effie bein' here, I'll tell you that." He stilled and then glared balefully. "Do not tell her I said that."

"Not in a million years."

The men exchanged mirrored, slanted smiles. "So. Next. You and I need to get presentable." He rolled up and stared at his scuffed shoes. "Boggles the mind, don't it? You've got some pretty decent clothes, but we also want to see what they're wearing, right now. And we should check out the news and listen to some gossip."

Gale scrubbed at his own face. "Right. Okay." It occurred to him that they should also, perhaps, meet up with some of the people they'd talked about back in Twelve, and he opened his mouth to say so.

Haymitch—maybe the man was a mind reader—cut him off with one angled brow and a grimace. "Hey, if you didn't get a chance to eat? Do that now. Everything here in the suite is paid for."

"Right. Thanks." He turned back to the dining area, but Haymitch didn't follow. Gale pointed a finger. "You, too. It's gonna be a long day."

There was a collection of finger-foods left in what served as a kitchen in the Penthouse Suite. With basic (awful, in Gale's opinion) colors of pale green and slate gray (didn't they have enough gray in Twelve?) the kitchen was not decorated to encourage chatting over a beer and sandwiches. "So where do we go for gossip, then?" Gale asked, picking a pre-made sandwich provided by the Games. Beef and cheese on dark rye. Nice.

Haymitch opened a bottle of beer and peered at it through the indirect lighting. "Where do you go when you're here visiting…friends?" he countered.

With a grimace, Gale put his sandwich on a plate. "Usually private parties. President Snow has…events."

"Yeah." Haymitch guzzled half his beer in one go. "I remember. Damn. Right. Okay, so on Games Days, they'll be…congregatin', for lack of a better word. Near the public screens, you know? To see an' be seen, and see who they wanna invite back for later, you know?"

Gale shuddered. "I know. Glad I'm working." No playing Capitol Sex Toy when he was serving as a Mentor. That wasn't a directive in writing—just as the idea of prostituting oneself wasn't in writing—but it was understood all the same.

An hour later, he felt as if he had once again landed on an alien planet. "Look, I know that couple," he murmured to Haymitch while inclining his head toward one of the most skilled cryosurgeons in Panem. "She's Dr. Smith and her husband is Mr. Grigson, owner of the Vintage House."

"Smith." Haymitch actually appeared surprised. "Is that her real name?"

Dr. Melinda Smith was entirely ordinary in appearance, having short, dark blond hair and pale blue eyes. She reminded him a bit of Peeta Mellark, actually. "That's what they told me. She's very keen on Better Living Through Freezing or something."

The other Mentor snorted and directed his focus elsewhere. "Have you met Ginger and Marston Potter? Marston is also in pharmaceuticals. Has a huge lab and a staff with a whole mess of famous researchers from all over." Haymitch nodded when the Potters turned and noticed them. "Money. Meds. His wife is…"

"I've seen her. She's a speechwriter for Snow."

"Yeah. We need to talk to them. Ready?" Haymitch lifted one finger and smiled briefly at the Potters. "Let's go."

Gale swallowed down his nerves. He had to. This was his job. The crap he had to put up with as an unofficial Capitol Whore was just a nasty sideline he did to stay alive and keep his family safe. This was the job of Mentoring. "Am I going to need another shower after this?" he murmured.

"Not today." Haymitch seemed to lighten and brighten all at once. "Well hello, Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Imagine seeing you here."

Marston Potter had his head shaved save for one long, dark blue braid that began at the top of his scalp and ended at the middle of his back. He was just under six feet in height and had chosen a white suit that day, with lapels that matched his hair color exactly. His eyes were shielded behind light-lenses—contact lenses worn in place of sunglasses—so he appeared to have black irises. His voice—heard in many voice-overs, making Gale think that the man did voice-acting for fun, perhaps—rumbled up from his chest when he greeted Haymitch and presented his wife to Gale.

"Gale Hawthorne! Congratulations on your Victory last year," Dr. Potter said, one arm around his wife. "Sorry I haven't been able to meet you in the interim. This is my wife, Ginger."

Unlike her husband, Ginger came forward and shook hands with him. She was wearing what he considered to be the epitome of Capitoline fashion: extravagant detail. About six inches shorter than Marston, Ginger's deep red hair was piled high on her head in the shape of what looked like a woven basket, with tiny, sparkling stones throughout. Her skin was pale as paper, her eyes looked to be a natural forest green in color, framed by eyelashes that reflected the colors of the stones in the…hair-basket. She was wearing a black pantsuit with gemstone buttons and black, stiletto-heeled boots. And she was still six inches shorter than her husband.

"Mrs. Potter, a pleasure," Gale managed to say. "I've heard a lot about you, in my time here."

She smiled easily before eyeing him up and down in a way that was far too familiar to him. "Well, now, Mr. Hawthorne. So nice of you to allow Haymitch to drag you out here, today." She turned her charm on the older Mentor. "Shame on you, sir, for neglecting us these last years. The two of you should come around, after the Games are over. Marston, give them our codes."

With an indulgent smile, Marston Potter flipped a silver-edged card at Haymitch, who caught it with a flattered expression.

Gale didn't know what to say, so he faked it. "Haymitch wanted to make sure we met, Mrs. Potter, Mr. Potter. He's had nothing but good things to say about you." It was close; they'd been mentioned in passing back in Victor's Village. "Will you be at the parade tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Marston assured him with a smile. One of his canine teeth appeared to have a sapphire set in it. Gale managed not to stare. "Please, find us if you need us, Mr. Hawthorne, Haymitch. Happy Hunger Games."

Ginger blew kisses at both the Mentors before winding her arm around her husband's and walking languidly away.

"Well, that was interesting," Haymitch murmured, pocketing the card. "I'll see if I can find a muffler for any talks with them, though."

"Good idea. Where to next?"

"A bar. I need a drink." He checked his pocket watch, though, and sighed dramatically. "But we have to hit one more location before we do that, Hawthorne."

"Where?"

"Schmooze Central. The Plaza. Let's go."

The world was a mad kaleidoscope of color as they wove between slow-moving pairs of people on the way to The Plaza. Enormous screens showed the latest news interests, gossip items, and advertisements all around the square, at a variety of levels. Subtitles scrolled on the screens as well, just in case someone missed something.

"Damn, the Reapings," Gale said out the corner of his mouth. "I missed all of this last year."

"You were in all of this last year. Look, Two's volunteers. They all had to show up and put their names in."

"The bowls are practically empty, though," Gale blurted. The bowls from Twelve had more slips of paper than lived in the entire District.

"You've seen this before, Hawthorne. They show the Reapings every year."

The screens shifted and the Escort for Two—her name was Sophie Towers and she'd been Two's Escort as long as Gale could remember—swept long, dark fingers through the transparent bowls before flipping up one.

"And for our girls, we have…Clove!"

Gale stared at the largest screen as cheers erupted all around them. The citizens of the Capitol were exempt from the Hunger Games and so were able to enter into the insanity, the crude viciousness of it, without personal risk. To them, this was a game. A betting match. A chance to experience vicarious thrills by risking money or reputations. Not their lives. Never their lives.

"And for the boys, we have…"

"I volunteer!" A strong male voice called from the screen. Subtitles were already filling in the details from the Reapings of the day before. Cato: District 2

Clove—a whip-thin girl who looked to be about fifteen, maybe—sported a fierce grin as she stood before Two's Justice Center with its expert masonry on display. It looked like an ancient castle from a book. The girl thrust a fist into the air as if she were holding a hammer and the potential Tributes gathered before her cheered.

Cato—tall and blond with an arrogant sneer—strode up the center aisle, flanked by the inevitable Peacekeepers, as if he were lord of all he surveyed. He nodded to Sophie Towers and the officials who sat nearby. There was a slew of Mentors clustered on their dais as well, and they all nodded at their volunteer.

"Lovely, lovely," Sophie said with her warm tones. "Shake hands now, and we'll let everyone else go home for the day!"

Cato and Clove shook hands, grinning at one another as if they were about to undertake an adventure, not about to enter an arena where they'd have to kill or be killed.

Did I look like that, last year? No, I couldn't have. Fern was so slender, I felt protective of her immediately. I wasn't smiling, either. Couldn't. All I could do not to lose what breakfast I'd eaten…

The screen flashed with the "War, Terrible War" clip that President Snow insisted be played on every station all during the Hunger Games at regular intervals. Then, the Reaping Review moved to District 3 and the process repeated itself.

"Gale Hawthorne!"

Surprised to hear that voice in that place, Gale darted a frown to Haymitch before finding his Victor Smile to put on for the woman that had hailed him. "Good afternoon, Aspen." Aspen Tier was in her thirties, looked about twenty-one, and wore a spiky dress of red silk with black quills around the hem. Her hair had been colored to match, but her eyes—a distinct shade of light brown—were entirely natural. He'd asked in an intimate moment two months before and she'd told him so, anyway. They shook hands and he introduced her to Haymitch.

"Oh, Haymitch Abernathy, I've heard of you," Aspen said in something near a purr. Gale suppressed a reactive smirk as she continued. "Do you still run around shoeless? I've heard stories about your…feet."

Haymitch snorted. "I bet I know who you're talking to, Ms. Tier. You were just a little thing when I was starting out here." He smiled, though, and shook hands with the woman. "Doesn't look like you've aged a day."

Aspen smiled and rolled her shoulders. "Well, you know. Clean living." She bowed her head for a moment and then looked up at Gale once more. "I look forward to seeing you after the Games."

Gale didn't know what to say to that; he was doing his job as Mentor, at the moment. An acknowledged role. Honorable and public. No one ever talked about the other role as Capitol Whore that so many new Victors—and some not so new—were forced into. Once more, the experienced Mentor covered for him. "We're hoping, Ms. Tier, that Hawthorne, here, will be accompanying his Victor on Tour."

Relief slid under Gale's skin with subtle relief. "Right."

"Oh, yes. Your Volunteer. Well, with you as Mentors, I'm sure she'll put on a good show. Should I place wagers?"

"I wouldn't like to say, Aspen," Gale said smoothly, slipping into that other role for a moment. "But keep your eye on her. I'm sure we'll all be pleased with her bravery and strength."

"Indeed. I will be watching the Parade this evening. I'm in the fourth box, if you find yourself at a loose end," she added with another smile at Gale. "Happy Hunger Games!"

"Keep smiling, Hawthorne," Haymitch advised under his breath as they watched the Reaping from District 4. "Confidence, not arrogance, will help us right now." Gale smiled and nodded and pointed at the screen as if they were all about watching the other Tributes.

Which they were, but also, they had to talk. "So do we talk to them?" he asked.

Smith and Grigson. Ginger and Marston Potter. Aspen Tier.

By the time they'd evaluated those that they'd met, three more people had approached them, all with smiles and invitations of one sort or another. "After all," one of them remarked casually, "if both your Tributes are taken out right away, you'll have plenty of time on your hands, won't you?"

"They won't be," Gale asserted, feeling his muscles tighten with the need to punch the older, bearded man in the mouth. She won't be!

The man held up a beringed hand. "Oh, there's a chance, of course. After all, one of yours did Volunteer." A hard light glittered in his dark eyes. "Neither of you did that much, did you?"

When Gale would have stomped off, Haymitch leaned against the white back of the bench they had appropriated in The Plaza. "I wouldn't have even considered it," he drawled. "Unlike some people, I have no wish to die."

Gale blinked when their guest paled, made excuses, and left them.

"What the hell was that?" Gale whispered harshly, unable just then to keep his expression neutral.

"That, Gale Hawthorne, was a warning." He glanced down at his watch and rose to his feet. "Time to get back. We'll need to eat and freshen up before the Parade."

Chapter Five: The Parade will post on Friday. If you want a sneak peek, just drop me a line that says, "I volunteer!" and I'll send you one. You must be signed in and accepting PMs, though. - LJ