Yet again, Dean sprung out of bed, the thick sheets pooling at his ankles. Of all of the objects in the Capitol, the blankets were the only items in his temporary room that didn't best those from his home district. His father had ordered those blankets from a specialty plant in District 8 when he started training.
"Be happy," he had said, carelessly tossing the unwrapped gift onto his son's lap, "From now on, I'll only buy you weapons."
The sheets clinging to his ankles possessed no such kindness. They were simply shackles.
He tried to suffocate his wandering thoughts as he pulled himself out of bed. Today, he and the other tributes would start group training, and since he came from a district with an abundance of victors willing to come and train, he had no idea which one of his neighbors were going to be there to support him. A few days before the Reaping, he had asked Bobby Singer, the victor of the 23rd Hunger Games, to come. Considering he wasn't overjoyed by Dean's participation in the games, Bobby had been hesitant, but Dean had made a rather compelling argument.
"You could be the difference between my life and death," he had argued blatantly. Bobby had never responded, but rather, taking another swig of his whiskey, stared silently at the wall. Since Bobby's wife had died, he had fallen into the same pitiful routine as every other victor: one of alcohol and loneliness. Dean had filled some sort of hole in Bobby's life, acting as a surrogate son while Bobby served as a substitute father. Both of them knew that if he died in the games, Bobby would have no one.
Pulling his feet from the cotton shackles and shoving them into another, Dean dressed quickly in the training gear that had been laid out for him. District 2 had a reputation to uphold, and it involved being early and intimidating. He had to convince the other tributes that the careers were far from nervous. However, as Dean faced himself in the mirror, he knew it was a lie. While he was able to maintain a hard and threatening face, his deep green eyes exposed the falsity of his expression.
Today, he would be forced to see what he was up against. Sure, he knew that the tributes from District 1, and maybe even 4, would have nearly the same training that he had – if not more. But even if they were more equipped than him, at least he knew they'd be on his side. It was the other kids that would be the wild cards. Through watching past games in the large viewing center his father had built into their basement, Dean had come to realize that anyone, no matter how young or frail they may seem, could become a lethal killing machine when provoked. Those were the kids he had to worry about. Those were the kids he'd have to identify today.
Meeting the obviously lethal Lilith in the hallway, Dean was surprised to see her hair gelled back into a tight pony-tail. Normally, trainers would suggest that tributes dress as natural as possible. Once in the games, she wouldn't have that gel to hold back her wisps of curly blonde hair. He wondered if it would actually hurt her when the time came. Wondered, and hoped.
Together, they walked silently to the training rooms. The building was designed in a similar fashion as the one in District 2, only his didn't have an elevator. He had only ridden in one once before when he was young. His father had taken him on a tour of the stone mines, and it was a day he'd never forget. To say he hated the machines would be a terrible understatement. An enclosed space propelling your unwitting body toward the ground, held up only by a series of detachable chords – that was scary. If someone came at him with a knife or axe, then at least the situation was in his hands. He could defend himself. If this contraption broke, then there was nothing he could do but plummet to his demise.
It was eight when they farrived at the main room, almost two hours before they were supposed to. They, as expected, were first. Two large "2"s were pinned to their backs.
"Ah, just wait around," the head trainer said with a smile, "You technically aren't allowed to touch anything until everyone is here, but I'm sure you have some strategizing to do."
She winked and walked away, leaving Dean alone with the four-foot menace.
"I wonder what the arena will be," Lilith asked, sounding so childish she almost came off as friendly. Dean hadn't really thought about the arena, he had been too preoccupied with the people and cameras that followed him everywhere. He and his father had trained for almost every terrain and climate imaginable, even spending a good deal of time in the arctic-style room at his training center.
"It could be anything," he mumbled ominously. It really could, what with it being the first year after the Quarter Quell. The Hunger Games were meant to be entertaining, so they had to live up to the previous year. But then again, there was a chance it wouldn't be the arena that was truly special, but rather the weapons or creatures.
Digging his hands into his knees and hunching his broad shoulders, Dean looked at the many stations in the large room. Any of the things in this room could be there. Any one of these things could kill him.
.o0o.
A small jolt of pain shot up Castiel's back as the large "5" was pinned carelessly onto it. Most of the tributes had arrived simultaneously, the only exceptions being the four careers that seemed to have been there for hours. Fearful, he stayed on the opposite side of the group and avoided their menacing stares. He didn't want to repeat yesterday's events, especially considering that in this setting Michael could probably justify going much further than providing a mere demonstration of his strength.
The tributes were called together to discuss the day's events. It was the first time Castiel was able to see all of the tributes without their ridiculous costumes. The careers looked unbelievably threatening, their nearly skintight outfits highlighting their bulging muscles and illuminating their harsh and darkened faces. In contrast, the rest of the tributes looked awkward and gawky. In the crowd, Castiel was drawn to the boy from 12. Clearly consumed with whatever was going on in his mind, he appeared severely depressed. The boy was one good actor.
A woman began to list the stations available. Axes, spears, swords, poisonous darts - all of it meant nothing to Castiel. He worked in a power plant – that was all he knew. He didn't have any of this military training; he didn't even know what a javelin even was, let alone how to take someone's life with it.
She then moved on to the strategic stations, stressing the fact that many of the tributes would die of natural causes. Castiel was much more interested in these sorts of activities. He knew all too well that he could never best a career if it came to a physical confrontation, but he sure as hell could outthink one.
The second the group broke, Castiel barreled towards the poison station, Claire stumbling behind him to keep up. He knew the tributes from agricultural districts like 7 and 11 had most likely grown up memorizing which plants were potentially toxic, and he knew he couldn't afford to let then have that advantage. At the station was a large interactive computer tablet covered in thousands of leaves and berries.
"They are so beautiful," Claire breathed, fingering the picture of a bright turquoise flower.
"And fatal," the instructor at the station said solemnly. "In person, that flower would kill you in seconds."
Castiel gulped. He had never seen any of these plants; he had never been near anything like them. Come to think of it, he couldn't even think of a time when he had heard a bird's song in person. Burning his throat and lungs, his nerves boiled up inside of him. Could he even be good at the logical components of the Games?
"Aw, little Cassie looks upset," a singsong voice chirped sarcastically from behind him. Castiel turned to face a rather beautiful girl with wavy brown hair. Two boys stood next to her, one on each side. The first boy had a harsh, rodent-like face and extremely thin hair while the other was nearly skeletal, his wild orange curls the only aspect of his body with any volume at all.
"I'm Meg Masters," the girl said with a smirk, "and this is Albert and Ardor."
Castiel was confused. They were all from various districts, so why were they conversing? He looked down at Claire, whose face was also constricted by a similar look of puzzlement and distrust.
"What do you want?" he asked, trying to hide his suspicions and knowing he was horrible at it.
"I'm here with an offer," she said, stepping into Castiel. Pooling in his cheeks and chest, discomfort flooded his every core.
"What?" he tried to avert his gaze from the two large eyes that stared unwaveringly at him from mere inches away.
"You see them over there?" she nodded her head in the direction of the careers, who were repeatedly stabbing a practice dummy with a ten-inch knife. "The guys and I have noticed that they always win. But then last year the underdog got it, so I say we continue the pattern."
Castiel furrowed his brow. She was from 8, a district that rarely won. It would be natural for her to be a bit ruthless, but if she was hinting at what he thought –
"I say we form an alliance," she proposed, her low voice as soothing as it was menacing.
"An alliance?" Castiel questioned quietly, almost as if it was against the rules. He looked at the group in a whole new way. The careers were like lions, whereas they were underweight, feral cats. The boy with the wild hair, Ardor, probably couldn't even lift one of the training weights to save his life. Albert looked stronger, but it was in an ugly way that would most likely turn off any possible sponsors. Why would anyone want to side with them?
Why would anyone want to side with him?
"Yes," Meg started, "An alliance. I'm a good fighter, and so is Al. Ardor here knows everything, his father back in 3 programs all this junk. And you, everybody saw how you threw yourself in the line of fire for your little friend, Clara, right? You're the only thing we don't have."
Castiel looked at the floor. They wanted him because he was nice? Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Claire, still as surprised and suspicious as before, but now with a heartwarming smile.
"Can Claire come?" he asked without much thought.
"Sure, whatever."
"And what happens if we all make it to the end?" he wondered.
Meg's smile grew as Castiel seemed more and more open to the plan.
"I'll give everyone a ten minute head start," she chuckled, "Besides, by that point – if it does come – it'll just be us. An underdog will win. That's all I want."
She seemed sincere, but Castiel was never good at discerning that sort of thing. His eyes wandered to the careers and then to the giant, colorful screen of poisonous foliage. He couldn't do this on his own, and he knew now that he had been kidding himself by trying to think otherwise. At least with them he might make it through the bloodbath. Even if they were to betray him, he could die knowing he tried. Looking over to Claire just in time to catch a small approving nod, he made his decision.
"We're in."
Meg swiveled and walked away, her shoulders raised, strong and proud. Castiel and Claire watched the crowd wander away and eventually break. Had they really just allied?
"Do you think it'll work?" Claire interjected, straining her voice to conceal any glimmer of hope that might try to escape.
"No," he responded honestly, "No, I don't."
The two returned to their training for a few minutes. Castiel quickly found that although he didn't know any of these plants, he retained the information easily. Soon, he was able to fly through the tests like a professional. Memorizing the slides reminded him of home. If a boy his age wanted employment – which everyone did – he had to know every gear of the machine after mere seconds of instruction.
POP!
A loud noise shook the room as Lilith ruthlessly beheaded a practice dummy, launching the thick head toward the incredibly tall ceiling. The whole room was instantly captivated by this small girl's powerful demonstration.
Claire tapped his shoulder, pulling him from the spectacle.
"Castiel," she whimpered, "Even if the group doesn't work out, will you still side with me?"
Castiel nodded gravely. How could this one girl he had met just a few days ago suddenly have the power to make him throw away his better judgment? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she reminded him of home, of his sister. The thought of Anna sent a wave of depression to his heart. He wondered if she was sick by now, or if she was still walking around healthy, a ticking clock counting down from deep inside her body.
"Castiel?" she requested his attention once more, "If it comes down to it, I want you to kill me."
Trying to suppress the look of shock that flashed onto his face, Castiel frowned.
"Why would you ever say that?" He muttered angrily at a higher volume than he had anticipated, causing a few faces to turn and stare. He lowered his voice to a grumble, his face inches from hers. "You barely know me."
"Yeah, but I'm not stupid. I know I'll never win, I'm not even sure if I want to. All I know is that eventually one of those careers will show up, and I don't want to die at their hand."
As if on cue, the plastic head came bouncing to the ground from its temporary place in the rafters. As much as he hated the idea, he understood where Claire's request came from. The games were growing closer and closer, and he knew he'd have to come to terms with the fact that he was going to die.
"I'll think about it."
.o0o.
"All I'm saying is that you're not technically a career, you're just from District 2. I don't see how siding with you would benefit me," Michael spoke with a very pompous, condescending edge.
Lilith stood, her small fists clenched at each side of her body like an angry child. Taking a precautionary step back, Dean prepared for the worst. Michael had been excluding Lilith all morning and had only just come out and said why. He had a point in rejecting the girl. Careers had more than just their lives on the line – they had their reputations, too. A guy like Michael wasn't about to sacrifice his for some loud mouthed girl who might crack under pressure.
"I am just as able as any of you, if not more!" she hissed, her eyes igniting with rage. Dean wanted to move farther away, but the girl from District 1, Lace, was watching him. Leaving would suggest fear, and fear would suggest a weakness. He knew better than that.
"Oh, really?" Michael laughed at Lilith, "How many hours a day did you train?"
Lilith stood silent, her face turning more and more red with every passing second.
"I didn't think so. Personally, I trained six. How many did you train, Lace?"
"Seven," she stated, straitening her back as she was called into conversation.
"Dean?"
"Twelve." The number was sour on his tongue. His father had given him eight hours of sleep, three hour-long meals, and an hour of personal time. Sometimes, he'd sacrifice sleep to lay awake at night and anticipate the games. The other tributes there had lives, friends, family. He had just had boot camp, fellow soldiers, and a drill sergeant.
Michael, however, looked impressed by his lifestyle.
"See," the career said, turning back to Lilith, "You can't possibly be as good as us."
The young girl had clearly reached her boiling point. Alerting Dean of what was to come, a wave of calmness swept over her small body. Dean watched as Lilith tore the knife from Michael's hands and swiftly decapitated a nearby dummy with a single flick of her delicate wrist. The force of the blow sent the head spinning into the air and the entire room's jaws dropping to the floor.
"I can do whatever you can do, and I didn't need somebody to teach me," she stepped toward Michael, still wielding the knife. Dean caught a momentary glimpse of terror in the boy's eyes. The girl was good, and he couldn't deny it.
"Fine," Michael grunted, trying to cover his fear with more of his usual haughty tone.
Lilith laughed, bouncing to the next station with a foolish grin. Dean simply couldn't understand the girl. Just as she was starting to seem like the most horrifying person he had ever met, she could turn around and act in an indescribably girlish manner.
"Dean?"
He turned, finding himself nose to nose with Lace. Her face was thin, pale, and elfish, like something out of a children's story. She was pretty in a haunting way, reminding him of a ghost of a once beautiful woman.
"I need to talk to you," she added, pulling him aside. They watched as Michael followed Lilith, grumbling something under his breath along the way.
"What?" he asked once they were out of earshot. He couldn't help by marvel at her flowing white-blonde hair. Captivating him, it shimmered like a thin sheet of moonlight as her head swayed from side to side.
"Can I trust you?"
The question was so straightforward that it threw Dean off. Lace, however, stood strong and waited for his answer.
"Uh," he thought about it a little longer than he probably should have, "I guess."
"So you won't turn on me until absolutely necessary?" she said, a look of irrepressible need in her large grey eyes.
"I won't," he responded more quickly this time.
"And you won't tell the others I asked you these things?"
"No," he said immediately. With more though he added, "Why?"
Lace bit her lip nervously and looked over his shoulder at Michael, who was showing Lilith how to use a bow on a moving target.
"Because I've known him for as long as I can remember, and I know I can't trust him. He cares about himself and his own twisted aspirations, nothing more, nothing less. I have no way of knowing how he'll act once the game starts, and I think we both know that Lilith girl is completely unpredictable. So, can I trust you?"
Dean almost felt bad for her. His entire life, the only person had known who even sort of qualified as a friend was Ruby. He couldn't imagine what life would have been like if he had disliked her as much as Lace clearly disliked Michael.
"Definitely."
.o0o.
Sam grasped the hilt of the axe, flexing his fingers around its wooden frame. With one jerk, he pulled it into the air, unaware of its weight. The axe, lighter than he had anticipated, flew above his head.
"Calm down, buddy," the station advisor said, throwing their arms into the air. "We don't want anyone to lose a limb."
"Sorry," Sam stuttered, "I just – I, uh, expected it to be heavier."
A look of pity consumed the trainer's face. Each of the advisors seemed to act that way while Sam was at their station. Even if the previous victor had been from 12, they saw him as a dead man even more than they did the others. Everyone from 12 died.
"Here, try holding it like this."
Sam turned to see Maria, holding a much larger axe as if she was about to plunge it into his unwary chest. He jumped back, crashing into the long metal table that held the other axes. A few clattered to the polished floor.
"Goodness," she laughed, lowering the weapon, "A little jumpy, huh?"
Sam nodded, leaning down to pick up the fallen artillery. The girl had turned full circle since their previous encounter, no longer withdrawn or mistrusting. In fact, she even kneeled down to help him.
"So, everyone this year seems to be forming alliances," she muttered quietly when their faces were close, looking directly into his eyes.
"I hadn't noticed," Sam answered honestly. To be truthful, one of the other tributes could have started screaming bloody murder and he probably wouldn't have noticed. His entire mind was focused on trying to retain the information each of the stations offered, he couldn't be bothered with what everyone else was doing.
"Really?" she asked in an overly relaxed way.
She inched closer towards him gracelessly.
"What do you want?" he decided to ask, leaning away from her.
"What do you think I want?" she said snobbishly, letting her head shake cartoonishly as she spoke.
"Why me?" he inquired. Was this some sort of mind game, talking about unions that would never work out?
She sighed heavily as if what she was saying was too difficult to force out of her thin lips.
"Because I think you have potential," she answered, rising to her feet and beginning to pace back and forth.
"I've been training all my life for this," she continued, "So I know how to tell who can and can't be trained. You're what? Seven feet tall? Plus you volunteered so you've probably got that lunatic energy. Not to mention the fact that sponsors tend to favor the current victor's district."
She continued to ramble on about how great an ally he would make, not realizing that Sam had left the discussion. About 30 feet away, Rod stood alone watching them intently. He looked so small, dwarfed by the gigantic room. What would happen to the boy once the clock ticked down?
"What will I have to do?" he threw himself back into the conversation with little care of where he interrupted Maria.
"I'm not asking you to follow me around, I just don't want Rod and I to be the only ones without another person to count on. If it comes down to you having to choose between killing us or killing someone else, you'll have our best interest in mind. The same would go with us for you."
Sam nodded. He didn't really like the idea of having to look out for them, especially because Maria was so much more experience than he. But Rod was so small, so feeble compared to everyone else. The least he could do was promise not to hurt him.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," he grumbled, suddenly aware of the people in the room. He could be the one to take and of the lives in this room, and they could take his. At least he could sleep well knowing he probably wouldn't be the one to kill Rod.