Chuck was stressed out. He was two bottles of champagne in, and the headaches still hadn't gone away. Every second of his life had been spent in preparation for this, and he was messing it up. For the first time, he was confronted by what might happen after the games were over.

From within his hands, the sound of the ornamental cork bursting out of the third bottle startled him.

The citizens of the Capitol had gone wild. It had been entertaining when Dean had taken Castiel under his wing, and the people had been incredibly surprised when Sam had allied with Maria and Rod. But when Claire died, the city was solemn. The reaction wasn't normal, and to be honest, it freaked Chuck out. Unless they had lost a significant amount of betting money as a result of their death, people almost never mourned a tribute. Everyone had known Claire would die, but everyone was still affected by the delayed death.

For a while, Chuck had it under control. He re-routed the boy from District 10 so that his path crossed over Sam, Maria, and Rod's. The Capitol was quickly reminded of Sam's brutality, lessening the likelihood that Rod would become another Claire. But then Dean had to go ruin everything.

As Chuck downed the third bottle, he frowned. Champagne just didn't taste the same when you were already wasted.

Careers were the glue that held this entire operation together. Because of them, it didn't matter how many kids cried and sobbed their way through the bloodbath. As long as there were brutal, vicious killers tearing through the lesser tributes, none of the Capitol citizens would notice the true nature of the games. Specifically, Dean had been even more important. He represented a new generation, another line of faithful, devoted tributes. When he gave his water– the most important resource – to Sam the Psychopath, he rewrote everything.

He demonstrated morality. He created doubt.

President Snow had come to visit Chuck. When the Head Gamemaker received the notice that his leader was coming for "tea," he had panicked. Gamemakers in the past had disappeared after the games were over, and it was no secret why. They had attempted to befoul the integrity of the games through their actions.

He knew that if something didn't change, he was about to suffer the same fate.

Wearing an all black suit that was terribly out of place amongst the Capitol's colors, Snow was dressed as usual when he arrived. As if he was meeting his friend after a long day of hard work, he had sat casually across from an equally underdressed Chuck. Chuck just held his breath.

"Do you know why I am here, Carver?" he asked, using Chuck's pseudonym respectfully. President Snow had a way of talking to him as if he was five, but threatening him as if he was a vile, viscous murderer.

"It's about the boy from District 2, Dean Winchester," Chuck started, gulping in a good deal of air at the end of his statement. The fear that pumped through his veins was uncontrollable, palpable, and nauseating.

"Yes, it is indeed," Snow looked down at the armrest of the large platinum chair he occupied, picking at it judgingly. "And do you know why I have a problem with that boy?"

Chuck tensed, and Snow noticed it immediately.

"No need to be afraid, son. It isn't your fault that this good-for-nothing derelict seems to think he's above the system. I am sure that you will solve this little dilemma with incredible haste, is my conclusion correct?" Snow's eyes now bore into Chuck, his nails still digging into the arm of the chair.

"Yes, yes sir."

The meeting with President Snow had left him a bit shaky, but it had given him an idea. He informed the other Gamemakers almost immediately after the President left, and they all agreed that it was a brilliant idea. It was time for the 51st Hunger Games to get interesting.

.o0o.

Loosening chunks of rock and raising an incredibly thick mist of dust and gravel, the sound of the anthem furiously shook the cave walls. Each one of the tributes turned to look at the walls, expecting to see the faces of their friends and competitors who had fallen that day.

But it was not nighttime. They were met by darkness and the sound of trumpets. Everyone strained to listen, for they knew what was coming.

"Attention tributes," a voice rushed through the caves, even louder than the anthem had been, "I regret to inform you that there may be a substantial threat in the arena."

"It has come to our attention that a toxic chemical may be present within the caves, and in a few hours, it will be at immeasurable levels. In order to keep the Games fair for all of you, we have organized a feast. Food will not be offered, but rather, seven specially designed gas masks have been placed near the cornucopia for your use. If you wish to survive through the night, it is crucial that you arrive as soon as possible. Good luck!"

There was barely a moment of silence in the caves before every one of the tributes began to move.

.o0o.

Sam tried to bring himself to his feet, but he couldn't. The pain was too much. Looking down at the charred shoes that had once encased his feet, he sighed. He needed to get to the cornucopia, but in his condition, it was beginning to look impossible. If he were even able to relocate it in time in the tunnels' maze, every movement left him feeling as if a new layer of skin was torn from his body.

No matter what the Gamemakers claimed, everyone knew they were the ones releasing the chemical. No one would think anything of it, it was just the nature of the Hunger Games. This was an attempt to make everyone strong fight to the death, and to make everyone weak die where they hid. Sam wanted to refuse the fate of a weakling - he wanted to go.

But a part of him didn't think he could.

It would be easier to wait here. With his handicap, he'd probably be killed the second he got within thirty feet of the cornucopia. That, and the shock from the wounds on feet might kill him before he even managed to reach it.

However, Same couldn't help but think it was worth a try.

Wincing as pain shot up them and throughout his body, Sam placed his raw hands onto the ground behind him. He knew he had to at least try to do this, so he pushed through the pain. In a few minutes, Sam was on his feet. It felt like he was standing on a bed of sharpened knives and thorns, but he was vertical. Slowly, he moved one foot forward. For a second, it felt almost good.

Then his foot regained contact with the ground.

A single thunderous cry of pain echoed throughout the caves as his foot returned to the ground, as the knives dug back into his flesh. It was excruciating.

For a moment, Sam stopped. He stopped, and looked back at the mouth. Maybe he could stay here. It was so close to the mouth, so maybe the poison wouldn't be dense enough. He ripped his eyes off of the glistening wheat as the memory of his open burns stung in his mind. Finally, his eyes fell onto the charred boy who still rested peacefully on the cold stone floor.

He solemnly reminded himself that he only had a hundred-something more steps to go.