Sam was the first tribute to duck out of the door at the end of training. Since he was from District 12, he wouldn't have to return for individual assessment until after dinner, and he aimed to relish that free time while he still had the chance.
On the journey back to his floor, Sam couldn't help but notice something. Merrill, the girl from his district, still refused to acknowledge his existence. The entire way up to their room she stayed at least 10 feet behind him. At one point, he even decided to stop walking just to see if she would stop too just in order to avoid him. She did.
Even though she was a year older than he and Haymitch, Sam had known her from school. Throughout their time together, he had never once heard her talk, but almost every day he had watched her stay after class to discuss that day's lessons with the teacher. She may have been quiet, but she was definitely smart.
When they arrived at their floor, Merrill practically dove into her room and slammed the door loudly behind her, causing the walls of the ornate room to shake.
"I wonder what's her problem."
Haymitch appeared behind Sam, a rather large glass mug in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed and his whole body appeared abnormally slack.
"How drunk are you?" Sam asked, suddenly feeling the need to hold Haymitch up. The current victor was in terrible shape, and Sam knew it could only get worse. Pulling the near empty mug from the boy's hand, he led him to the couch. Haymitch collapsed with a grunt.
"Completely," Haymitch responded with a drunken gurgle, "This is my seventh mug! I broke a few others though before they were emptied."
Sam sighed. This man was supposed to be his lifeline, and he couldn't even walk straight.
"Can you not drink for longer than a few hours?" he heard himself shout, instantly regretting his outburst. Haymitch was indeed a lifeline, but he didn't have to be. In fact, he could hurt Sam if he so desired.
Haymitch, however, didn't seem angry about his request. A look of sadness washed over his prematurely aged face as he rolled his neck to look directly at Sam.
"I'm sorry," he said, seemingly sober for a single second.
Sam also felt rather apologetic. Having to come back to the place where he watched a record 47 other people learn to die in the Quarter Quell, Haymitch must be going through a lot. If he had to do that, he would probably drink, too.
He sat next to Haymitch on the long animal fur couch. Haymitch was humming a daunting song as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Sam's eyes wandered to the mug the boy had carelessly placed on the embellished coffee table. Of all the days and nights he had spent in the Distillery, he had never actually tasted alcohol. People like Haymitch – those who could afford to splurge and waste a few hours on mindless nonsense – had always acted as a very powerful deterrent. Sam wasn't about to waste his money or time on such a sloppy indulgence.
Yet, as she sank further and further into his seat's plush cushions, a single thought popped into his overworked head. If he did survive this, he'd be the wealthiest person in his district – along with Haymitch, of course. He could afford to buy the Distillery from Gabriel's family and run it for years without any care for profit or income. Or, following the path Haymitch had clearly chosen, he could waste his life on alcohol, keeping the Distillery running no matter how destitute the rest of the district became. He could choose to survive in the dazed, drunken state forever and never have to worry about any repercussions but an early death. And if he didn't win? Then what would one or two drinks before his sendoff really do? Weaken the blow of his impending doom?
Sam leaned down, grasping the cold glass in his large hand. An inch of pungent brown liquid pooled in the bottom, somehow begging him to drink it despite its general lack of appeal. Letting the rim of the mug rest against his cold flesh, he prepared himself for his first sip.
"You stop that right now!"
Somehow awaking from his semi-coma, Haymitch tore the mug away from Sam and slammed it back onto the coffee table with a loud crack. Intoxicated, his face seemed uncomfortably twisted and confused in what may have been either rage or pain.
"Do not let me catch you doing that ever again!" Haymitch grumbled, jabbing his finger deep into Sam's arm.
Agitated, Sam pulled away.
"Who are you to tell people not to drink?" Sam inquired.
"I think I'm the best person to tell people not to drink, that's who I am. Now you," he jabbed Sam again, "You are a contestant fighting for your life. You have to stay agile and focused. And when you win this – which I know you will – you have to live a long, happy, sober life. I'll make that happen if it kills me."
"Why should you be allowed to drink if I can't?" Sam asked, fury boiling up in his deep voice. Haymitch sat stunned by his sudden change in tone.
"How about this, Sammy," Haymitch stated tranquilly, "If you win, I'll never drink again. I'll go completely dry. Hypocrisy never suited me, anyways."
"My name's Sam," he interjected, his calm change in tone signifying his approval of Haymitch's pledge.
Within minutes, the inebriated boy was fully unconscious, snoring into one of the couch's many cushions. Sam wondered if the man would even remember promising sobriety in a few hours, let alone ever manage to stick to it.
Nevertheless, Sam took the mug and emptied the remaining liquid into a nearby plant.
.o0o.
Rocking anxiously on his heels, Dean stood alone outside the training center. For a boy from District 2, he would have to do exceptionally well on the following assessment. It was normal for the careers to get at least a 9, so anything less would be a disgrace.
A sharp panic struck him as he remembered his conversation with Carver. Would that fumble affect his scores for the better or the worse? Would it even affect him at all?
The doors swung open as Lilith was led from the room. She had an incredibly wide grin on her fierce face and was clearly red from exertion. Obviously, she had let loose once she was on her own, going wild on those poor practice dummies. She had given the Gamemakers a show of her true wrath.
A sense of confidence waved over him, for he now knew what he needed to do. The judges would have been drawn in by her power, but it would have been an empty sort of attention. In order to slaughter the livestock Lilith had managed to capture, he had to work off of that intrigue in a more intelligent way. The Gamemakers could engineer mindless killing machines, so he had to show them that he was something completely different.
Pushing past Lilith, Dean wandered into the large room. It seemed so dreary without the other tributes, like a dark empty chasm full of sharp, dangerous weapons. Looking up at the balcony, he allowed himself to notice the Gamemakers, laughing and warm. Carver was located directly in the middle of the crowd. The Head Gamemaker was a completely different man than the one he had met in the hall. A slick smirk rested upon his calm face and a wild, animated tattoo wriggled around his neck. The tattoo hadn't been there before; any idiot would have noticed the ostentatious display.
Pulling his eyes away from the Gamemakers, he tried to focus on the many empty stations that littered the room. The survival stations remained completely untouched, all of their contents perfectly lined up. The weapons, however, were a mess. Manny of the dummies were shredded, their limbs and fluffy cotton innards carelessly swept into small piles at their feet.
An idea popped into his mind as he found himself walking towards the whittling station. He was there for only a few moments, his hands flying across the soft wood with one of the Capitol's shining knives. Producing four objects, Dean jammed all but the largest into his belt and moved towards the knot tying station. He took a thin, strong string and tied it to both ends of the largest wooden object.
His heart flew as he moved from station to station, losing track of time. The Gamemakers sat forward in their seats, their eyes full of curiosity. He could practically hear them thinking: what could this boy possibly be up to? Why wasn't he just tearing through the mannequins like the others?
Finally, he tied a few sharp stones onto long sticks from the fire building station and returned to the dummies. Taking in a deep breath, he positioned himself a good distance from the 20 moving dummies.
As his father had always taught him, he counted down in his head: 3… 2… 1…
Every inch of his being relaxed as he gave in to his inner power, releasing it onto the dummies. First, he took out the largest whittled contraption and carefully tucked one of the sticks into it. The Gamemakers audibly gasped as they finally recognized his makeshift bow and arrow, and their interest only rose as all 10 of the arrows made perfect contact with their intended targets.
Dean threw the bow to the ground as he sprinted towards the remaining dummies. As he moved, the feeling of flight consumed him. Almost forgetting about the three other pieces of wood stowed in his belt, his heart skipped a beat. Crossing his arms across his chest, he simultaneously pulled two of the wooden knives and threw them with ease, impaling two dummies in their soft fabric faces.
Approaching the remaining dummies, he pulled the final knife from his belt and reverted to one of the simplest fighting techniques. Within seconds, all but one of the dummies were either nearly or completely decapitated. He stood still for just a moment before jabbing the makeshift knife into the final dummy's gut.
It was done. Dean couldn't even hear the applause over the sound of blood beating in his ears.
.o0o.
Castiel stared up at the Gamemakers, his heart exploding in his chest. During training, he had spent a few minutes at a couple of the weaponry stations, but he hadn't particularly excelled at any of them. Zachariah had told him to let loose, but he felt like if he did every fiber of his being would literally unravel, leaving him a jumbled mess on the floor.
He walked towards a table covered in various knives and blades. Having no idea what he intended to do once he got there, he kept his head down. He had to do something. Picking up a larger knife with a shining blue hilt, Castiel tried to grasp for some sort of way to make an impression.
Jogging over to the dummies, he concentrated on his breathing. Claire's advice from the train had been the most helpful suggestion he had yet received. His mind stayed relatively focused despite the fact that it remained shockingly empty.
The dummies shifted back and forth, their bodies secured on long metal beams. Holding the knife the way the trainer had taught him, he approached them. They moved faster than they had in practice, but it didn't matter. He was going to do poorly regardless.
Swiftly, he brought the knife down where the brachial artery would be on a real, living person. A part of him wondered if the Gamemakers would even notice his precision, his knowledge. Bringing he knife down a few more times, he successfully hit three more arteries. In District 5, the sharp spinning machinery and dangerous equipment made learning these weak spots the most important necessity.
Turning his head towards the Gamemaker's loft, he frowned. None of them were even paying attention. They hadn't seen enough to know he had made contact, let alone that his cuts demonstrated anatomical knowledge. He walked over to the fire starting station and set fire to a stack of kindling in mere seconds. Nothing.
As agitating as their lack of interest was, Castiel felt as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. It didn't matter what he did or how impressive he was, they already had his fate decided. The most he could do now was prove them wrong.
But he knew that would never happen. Fate was fate.
.o0o.
Sam was pacing. He had never paced before – he had never had a reason to. To his surprise, the continuous movement was somewhat calming, like a child being rocked to sleep.
He was going to be the last tribute to be assessed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he laughed. They saved the best for last, he joked with himself cynically. Haymitch had coached him on how to act after he had regained his consciousness. Apparently, the Gamemakers only paid any attention to the Careers. The rest of the tributes were scored based on their appearance, or – according to rumor – they were given random scores to manufacture a sense of suspense.
Sam, however, had volunteered, so Haymitch had no idea what that would mean during his assessment.
A shiver shot up his spine as the doors opened and Merrill stumbled out. Her appearance caught him off guard. He had never seen someone so scared, someone so nervous. A part of him wanted to reach out and comfort the girl, but he knew better. He knew he could never show her, or anyone else for that matter, that level of affection.
Walking around the trembling girl, he made his way into the cold room. By now, it looked as if the room had been hit by a series of tornados, a small group of people still cleaning up a mess left by one of the tributes. All of them blatantly ignored Sam's arrival, acting as if he weren't even there.
The Gamemakers were the same. By now, they had finished off most of the food that had been graciously delivered to them and were reclining in their large luxurious chairs in order to discuss everything but him. How could they do this, this terrible job? It was different, watching the games and feeling bad for the tributes, but how could they be so content when they would be the ones directly planning the details of is death?
For his assessment, Sam really didn't do much of anything. He threw around a few of the weights and an axe or two, all with reasonable accuracy and skill. Had they been watching, they probably wouldn't have been completely bored out of their minds. He knew he was mediocre.
Yet in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but replay Haymitch's words.
And when you win this – which I know you will – you will live a long, happy, sober life. I'll make that happen if it kills me.