Unlike Lilith, Dean finished his appointment at the Remake Center early, and for once he was happy that his father's overzealous approach had finally paid off.

"Just be back here for your costume in about forty-five minutes, okay, sweetie?"

Thus far, the best perk that came with being a career was the trust. Without the fear that he'd attempt to escape (or worse), he was allowed to wander the halls unchaperoned. It was probably the only good thing about the Games.

The building they were being held in was unnaturally large and resembled what could only be described as a maze. He wondered if it was meant to prevent his escape, or if it was simply another example of the Capitol's outlandish customs.

Dean rounded one of the many corners and was instantly startled by a scruffy looking man. The man was clearly less composed than he was, for he leapt into the air at his arrival.

"Dean!" he shouted, surprised, "Dean, from District 2!"

Dean stood silently. He had never seen this fidgety man before in his life. It occurred to him that a lot of people he didn't know knew his name and his face now, but this man didn't look anything like the typical avid fans of the Games. In fact, he seemed completely out of place; his brown hair and wrinkled suit oddly commonplace for a Capitol resident.

"Oh," he said, noticing Dean's silence, "You don't recognize me."

The man shoved his shaking hand into his jacket pocket, producing an excessively ornate flask. Taking a swig greedily, he extended it towards Dean.

"I'm sure you want some, too," he chuckled awkwardly. "It's a little strong, but you get used to it after a couple of drinks."

Dean looked down at the alcohol with a powerful yearning. It would be so much easier to board the chariots later if he knew he wouldn't remember it. It is called liquid courage, after all.

"Look, man," he responded against his will, pushing it back, "I don't think I should."

"Don't worry," the man said, either tipsy or paranoid, "If I say you can, you can."

Dean smirked as the man crumpled into the wall, his shaggy hair deflating in an almost unrealistic way.

"I'm sure you have that sort of authority," he laughed sarcastically.

"I do!" he insisted, "The Head Gamemaker can do anything."

His father would have been ashamed of how poorly Dean reacted. A small squeak was all his body was able to produce as his face turned pallid.

"You?" he eventually managed to choke out.

"What do you mean me?" he sounded a bit offended, but remained as casual as he had been before his reveal. Dean figured it was the rapidly worsening intoxication.

"You seem so –" Dean drifted off, not wanting to offend the man further. In a few days, his life would be in this man's shaky hands.

"So what?" the Gamemaker giggled, "So scruffy? So plain? So nice?"

He over annunciated his last word as if it was meant as an insult, taking another few gulps from his flask and sinking farther down the wall.

"Listen, kid," he mumbled drunkenly, "I've got to go give my big speech and stuff, so you better get back to your stylists."

The man, flinging his body away from his crumpled position, stumbled down the hall, turning back for just a second.

"Just so you know, my name's Carver. Carver Edlund," he hiccupped, "But my friends call me Chuck."

"Okay, Chuck." Dean smiled as fondly as he could.

"It's Carver."

And the man who held his life in his hands drunkenly saluted him and disappeared around the corner.

.o0o.

Sam had never imagined anything as painful and degrading as being plucked and prodded by the stylists at the Remake Center. Choruses of "tsks" and "humphs" echoed throughout the small, colorless, sterile room as the minutes slowly turned to hours. The only point during the whole ordeal when Sam felt even remotely human was when a younger female stylist had blushed at his surprisingly thick arms.

He wondered if these people worked this job every year – dressing people up to die. He couldn't imagine it, knowing that the person you chatted with today would be dead tomorrow. Maybe it was like a farmer raising cattle for meat, picking favorites all while knowing their fate. All but one of the tributes fit that scenario, and he probably wasn't going to be the exception. A small, bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Probably.

"All done, kid," one of the stylists said as they zipped up another variation of District 12's trademark coal miner's uniform and patted him lightly on the back. As a worker in the mines, he found the outfit's cartoonish style offensive. The costume was just another reason to hate the Capitol, for the Capitol clearly had no respect for the hundreds of men - and boys - who spent hours a day toiling deep underground. They were nothing more than a loose idea, separated by so many degrees from the reality that they had become nothing more than a fantasy. The fairy tale of the coal miner, working hard so that others could live in heated, powered rooms, surely seemed pleasant compared to the inescapable reality that true fairy tales where children were sacrificed for some vague symbolic reason made up the very essence of Panem.

In his costume, Sam was then led by the stylists down to where he'd board the chariot. He stood sullenly by District 12's cart, watching the other tributes bustle about in their grand outfits. Most of them – excluding only the careers – looked terrified.

He wondered if he did, too. At this point, Sam was fully unaware of what emotions he was feeling and what image he was portraying. Those details couldn't matter anymore.

Turning to look away from the others, Sam found himself face to face with none other than Haymitch Abernathy, who was looking surprisingly sober. He had known Haymitch for as long as he could remember. When they were younger, they had been the sort of friends who tolerated rather than enjoyed one another. Haymitch had always been the sarcastic goofball, existing as if there wasn't a care in the world, whereas Sam had tried his hardest to remain on his teachers' "good sides." Naturally, it was hard for them to get along.

From what Sam could remember from silly classroom birthday celebrations, Haymitch only had a month or two on him, and yet his face appeared worn and hard. If Sam had been forced to guess the man's age without his prior knowledge, he would probably put him in his early thirties. Was this what the Games did to people? Turned them into wreaked, aged drunkards?

"Let's talk for a bit", Haymitch said, a harsh smile painted on his still handsome face.

"What are we going to be talking about?" Sam asked, leaning against the large wooden chariot.

"You," Haymitch answered simply, "Why'd you do it? Volunteer, I mean? I had always pegged you for a smart kid, not really a psychopath."

Sam wasn't sure how to respond to his one and only mentor. He had his reason, but he knew Haymitch would be unimpressed by his generally stupid martyrdom. At the last moment, he decided to be truthful.

"My friend, Gabriel, he was the boy who was called first. He's crippled –" Sam told the floor, "because of me."

"Ah, so it's a guilty mind, Sammy," Haymitch guessed, more accepting than Sam had expected.

"I go by Sam," he interjected, eager to change the subject, "and I'm sorry about what happened outside the Distillery."

It was Haymitch's turn to stare at the perfectly polished floor in disgrace, his overgrown sandy hair shifting to cover his eyes. The frown that overtook his face was neither sad nor embarrassed, but merely disappointed at what the memory meant.

"What would you have to be sorry about? Not contributing to my public drunkenness? Two years ago, I wouldn't have given me anything, either. I'm a rich bastard who doesn't need the help of kids like you," a hint of anger flared in Haymitch's borderline sarcastic voice.

"You know we're the same age."

The two boys stood in silence for a few moments, a thick atmosphere forming around them.

"I'm going to help you, Sam," Haymitch stated randomly, his frown disappearing, "I'm getting lonely in the Victor's Circle, and you'd make a nice neighbor."

The Victor's face never quite reached a grin, but the look was still happier than Sam ever imagined Haymitch's haunted face could portray. Sam smiled softly at Haymitch's attempt at kindness. Maybe in another world they could have been better friends.

.o0o.

Castiel stood in his glowing blue suit, staring unblinkingly at the other tributes. He was surprised by the amount of tributes that were clearly younger than him. Both of the kids from District 3 were extremely small, and the boy from 8 appeared childish enough that he wouldn't have seemed out of place in kindergarten. He looked down at Claire, who was leaning against the chariot, trembling uncontrollably. She was only thirteen.

"Do you like your costume?" she said, noticing his stare.

He wasn't sure how to answer. When his stylist had told him about his long sleeved, long legged leotard, he hadn't exactly been thrilled. It was skin tight and incredibly uncomfortable, bulging in all the places people generally don't want to bulge.

It wasn't until one of the stylists told him about how the suit was made to shine brighter the longer he wore it or the warmer it got that he seemed even remotely interested in it. After a few minutes, it had risen to a low glow, beaming the same deep blue color as his eyes. Now it was almost like a beacon, casting beautiful shadows on the bright white stallions that were to lead their chariots.

"Sort of."

Claire shook her head, agreeing with him. Her suit was a rosy pink like her cheeks, which was probably more stunning than his was. Her hair, long and blonde, was pulled back in a tight bun with bright pink streaks running through it. He had to admit that their stylists knew what they were doing.

"Kids!" Zachariah jogged towards them, a false smile on his aging face.

Castiel sighed. While he was happy to be surrounded by so many people, there was something off about Zachariah, something he really did not like.

"Ok, let's have a little pow-wow, gather round," he didn't give them a choice as he wrapped his arms around both of them and dragged them into his loose embrace.

Castiel looked over at Claire. She looked even more averse to Zachariah that he did. They exchanged a quick smile, but they were soon interrupted.

"I'm going to tell you one thing and one thing only," he started, shaking them as he talked, "You must get sponsors, and nobody wants to give money to a grumpy Gus, now do they? I would normally suggest that you two should become ruthless killing machines, but since both of you look like you could model in a children's magazine, I don't see it happening that way. So smile, or you might as well kill yourselves now."

Castiel gulped as the tragedy of his situation became just a bit clearer. He might as well.

"So go out there and show me some teeth!" Zachariah threw them forward into the cart.

"He's not very nice," Claire giggled, her innocence rather charming. In the back of Castiel's mind, he wondered if Claire was able to comprehend the fear she was meant to feel. He answered himself quickly, for he knew every child in Panem understood that fear.

Castiel smiled weakly and nodded, returning to his earlier observations, this time trying to ignore the ages of the people he watched. The tributes from Districts 1 and 2 were chatting like they were old friends catching up after years of separation. One of them was much younger, but the rest of them looked at least seventeen.

One of them, a boy from District 2, stood out to Castiel. He had a booming laugh that carried throughout the large room. How could someone laugh so fiercely at a time like this? The boy looked his way, his brow furrowing at the sight of his wandering blue eyes. Without hesitation, Castiel quickly averted his gaze.

He wondered for a second if that boy would be the one to kill him.

.o0o.

"The male tribute from District 5 is watching us," Lilith said as if she were continuing their conversation, "Don't look."

Dean stood with the other careers. For some reason, the tributes from District 4 weren't with them. A part of his mind was happy that he'd have to side with fewer people, but the small, untrained and empathetic part knew something was wrong.

More wrong than a giant death match involving mere children? He thought to himself with a depressed smirk.

Lilith had meshed with the others better than Dean had expected. Her face looked even more like it was made of porcelain now that she had been "remade" and dressed up to look like a statue, but she still had that unmistakable glow in her eyes that, despite an age difference of nearly six years, sent shivers down his spine.

The girl from District 1, Lace, didn't seem as unnerving. She seemed a bit quiet and introverted, but she made up for it with her astonishing beauty and rare yet mesmerizing voice. Even though Dean knew this quiet behavior should be considered normal for someone in their situation, he could still hear his father's voice in the back of his head scolding her poor, nonstrategic actions.

The boy from District 1, Michael, stood stronger than anyone Dean had ever seen in his years at the District 2 Training Center. Unmovable and devoid of recognizable emotion, the boy was like a cold, stone statue. He measured a few inches shorter than Dean, but he made up for the height difference in the horizontal inches of muscle that supported his excessively wide shoulders.

"Is he at all intimidating?" Michael asked her, "I haven't actually looked at him. Kids from five are rarely something to worry about."

"No, not at all," she scoffed with a short grunting laugh. "He looks like a shopkeeper!"

The other careers laughed, and so Dean laughed as well. He knew these people were his only chance at survival. Nothing bonded a group like laughter - especially when the games get to the final stages. The Training Center had taught him that.

"I think he's looking at you, Dean," she said, finally averting her razor-sharp gaze from him.

Dean couldn't help but look over at the orb of blue light. He squinted. Why did this guy get such a cool costume when he was painted to look like a marble statue, just like every other year?

"Do you know his name?" Dean couldn't stop his curiosity.

"No, I try not to remember the names of the people I'm going to kill."

Dean didn't bother assigning the comment to a specific tone. He just listened as the careers laughed again, this time without him.