AN: Phew. Sorry for the late update, life's been cr-azy. Anyway, enjoy. Things are beginning to get a little intense now. . .
Rachel is a little irked that Blaine refuses to wear the outfit that she's carefully picked out for him. It's especially irritating, as he's the one who came up with their strategy of appearing as star-crossed lovers. Well, to be fair, he still thinks that they're acting as high school sweethearts, but she knows, with her innate flair fir the dramatic, that unrequited love will garner them more sponsorships.
Either way, the point remains that they are supposed to look like they belong together, and since Blaine is insisting on wearing his District Two training uniform instead of the delightfully cozy grey jumpsuits provided by the Capitol, she simply doesn't see how that goal can be accomplished.
"Don't worry so much," He chides, talking around a mouthful of biscuit. "It's only going to be the Gamemakers and the other trainees today. The media won't see us, and the media are the ones that have to believe in our intense passion."
"You're right, of course," Rachel says a little huffily, helping herself to a Very Berry smoothie. "I just believe that method acting is the best manner of preparing oneself for a performance.
Blaine just passes her a platter of eggs.
They've concocted a plan, together with their mentor, Shelby. Rachel had just assumed that they would ally themselves with the tributes from District One and District Four, as they were certain to be properly trained. Blaine had only smiled a little indulgently at the suggestion and Shelby had shaken her head.
"No," she'd said. "Blaine hasn't trained to be a tribute. The Careers won't want anything to do with you two – or they shouldn't, anyway, if we hold the cards right. Still. . .you'll want to pick strong allies."
"What about District Twelve?" Blaine had suggested. "They look strong."
Shelby had nodded. "District Twelve should work," she'd mused. "Or maybe Ten, with that tall boy and the blond girl. I liked the look of District Eleven's tribute, too."
"What about District Eight?" Rachel had asked. "I appreciate the power and visual display of their entrance at the Opening Ceremonies."
Blaine's smile had grown, and Shelby had sighed. "Distict Eight is hopeless," she'd said. "They're brought up sitting on their asses all day and the most manual labor they've ever done is turning on a sewing machine. I'd recommend District Seven – the lumberjacks are usually physically strong – but. . ."
"They seem emotionally unstable," Rachel had said.
True, she'd been annoyed at continuously having her ideas shot down, but she was willing to admit that there was value in what Shelby and Blaine had to say. Now, however, is the time for her to begin showing her value to the team.
"Hold on, Rach," Blaine says, grabbing her arm just before they walk in. "Let's go over the plan again."
Rachel sighs and rolls her eyes. She doesn't see why they all insist on treating her like a child. She is perfectly capable of being devious and underhanded – after all, she'd been chosen as the True Tribute of District Two, hadn't she?
"We're to befriend the tributes from Districts Ten, Eleven, and Twelve," she recites, "despite the fact that with my superior training and your more than adequate physicality we should be grouped along with the Careers."
"Not that," Blaine says with a small smile and a roll of his eyes. "I know you aren't stupid, Rachel, and we talked about that over breakfast. I mean during the training sessions."
"Right," Rachel says. "We're to work on trap-laying, camoflauge, and basic survival skills since they are our weakest skill-set. Also, you are to keep singing to a minimum."
"Moi?" Blaine asks, his eyes wide and his hand splayed out against his chest. "What about you, Ms. Berry? As I recall, you insisted in staring in every production of our high school."
"True," Rachel concedes, unable to keep the wicked smile off her face. "I, however, do not find the need to sing about everything single trivial activity I engage in throughout the day." When Blaine just continues to look at her, she can't help it, and begins to sing a familiar ditty.
"I'm brushing my teeth, getting ready for the day, then I'll wash my face, clean my pores away. . ."
"What?" Blaine glances around nervously. "I don't. . .I mean. . .I didn't. . ."
"You sing it every morning," Rachel points out. "To the point where I now have it memorized. Against my better judgment."
Blaine sighs, before opening his mouth and. . .
"My headband! It's my headband!"
Rachel has the dignity and grace to blush but do nothing else. Blaine shrugs.
"Okay," he says. "Neither of us will sing today."
That promise turns out to be easier said than done. They've been at the trap station for hours now, and Blaine is absolutely hopeless. He keeps getting the snare tied in knots, so it doesn't open anywhere and nothing can get inside it. Rachel is hopelessly bored, and she wants to start socializing with the other tributes to work on their allies, and. . .
"No, no, no," she almost jumps at the lilting sound of a new voice, just over her shoulders. A pair of slender hands reach out and adjust Blaine's grip on a pair of vines. With a deft twist, two sticks fall into place and Blaine triumphantly ties a knot. Rachel finally turns around to see who the new visitor is.
She'd assumed, based on the high voice and the perfect manicure that it was a girl, but instead she finds herself face to face with the half-naked boy she only vaguely remembers from the Opening Ceremonies. She doubts that she would remember him at all, except that his cloak had come undone halfway through, and she'd found it impossible to look anywhere other than at him and the half-naked girl at his side.
The boy, meanwhile, is completely ignoring her, focused instead on Blaine.
"Thanks," Blaine says, smiling his most charming smile. "I'm hopeless at this."
"Yes, well, it's the least I can do after the help you gave me at the opening," the boy says. He shoves Rachel over and sits down beside Blaine.
"Help?" Blaine laughs self-deprecatingly. "It looked like you did best when you ignored me."
Rachel rolls her eyes. She's known about Blaines' sexuality ever since they were both fourteen. She and Jesse had just broken up (for the fifteenth time, she believes) and she'd determined to get over her childhood boyfriend. Unfortunately, when she'd come up for air from her first kiss with Blaine he'd just stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face before finally saying "Yup. Definitely gay. Thanks for helping me figure that out, Rachel!"
So, yes, she knows that Blaine likes boys, and she knows that they have dissimilar taste. Still, does that mean that he has to blatantly flirt with other guys while hanging out with his fake, Hunger Games girlfriend?
She doesn't have to stand for that kind of disrespect.
"Blaine, I'll be heading over to the edible food section," she says, permitting just the perfect amount of haughtiness into her voice. "You may join me when you finally learn to tie a knot."
"Sure thing, Rach," Blaine says, though he still has his eyes trained on the District Eight boy.
Rachel huffs and storms off.
There's only one other person at the edible food station – the tall boy from District Ten. Which is perfect, really, since he's one of the ones that Shelby has okay'ed. She sidles up beside him, and watches as he puts a berry in his mouth.
"Wha – no!" the man heading up the station lunges forward and begins slapping at the tribute's face. "Not that one, you big oaf! That one's poisonous!"
The boy winces and spits it out. "Then why'd you let me almost eat it?"
Rachel peers curiously at the mangled remains of the blue berry.
"Ah," she says insightfully. "A boisinbur. Only the skin is poisonous, fortunately."
The boy turns to gape at her, and she notices that his lips are stained slightly blue from the various berry juices.
"Rachel Berry," she says proudly, holding out her hand to shake. "District Two tribute."
"Uh. . ." the boy wipes his hands hurriedly against his sides, before reaching one out. It's absolutely huge, about twice the size of one of Rachel's hands, but his grip is surprisingly gentle. "My name's Finn. I'm from District. . ."
"Ten, yes, I know," Rachel says. "Though your district does not traditionally do very well in the games, I would like to offer you my friendship and good will. May the odds be in your favor."
"Um, thanks?"
"That being said, you certainly won't last very long if you confuse a boisinbur for a blueberry."
"I'll try not to?"
Rachel is moderately impressed by his ability to turn every sentence into a question. That's the only reason that she continues by his side until lunch. Really.
The lunchtime meal is set up as a buffet, long rows of tables holding steaming food and ice cold dishes. Rachel carefully chooses her meal for ultimate nutritional value. Blaine, she notices, seems to be delighting in choosing the fattiest, greasiest, most disgusting foods possible. For that matter, so does Finn.
"If you eat like that you're never going to succeed in the Games," Rachel hisses to the other tribute from her district. Blaine just lifts one triangular shaped eyebrow and winks.
"We've been over this, Rachel. The only reason that I'm here is to make sure that you make it through the Games. I have no intention of being the victor."
With that, Blaine turns and walks away toward the table filled with drinks. Rachel can't do anything but stare at his retreating back. Of course, that was what Blaine had said when he first volunteered during the Reaping, but she'd assumed that it was just a heat of the moment type of thing. She'd never realized that he actually meant those words.
She finally collects herself, and hurries after him, but there's a little niggling doubt in her stomach now. Blaine is her best friend after all – while she doesn't love him the way that the media believes, she does care for him very deeply. There's something unsettling about the way that he's treating the Games as a suicide mission. She sits down beside him at one of the long tables. They are joined almost immediately by Finn and Kurt. A moment later the blond boy from District 11 joins them.
"So this afternoon are our individual sessions with the Gamemakers, right?" Kurt asks, delicately eating a vegetable-loaded salad. Rachel nods in approval of his choices. There appears to be some tofu in his salad, as well, providing the necessary dose of vegetables. Finn nods his head eagerly.
"So they just want us to, like, do stuff?" he asks around a mouthful of French fries. Rachel sighs in exasperation.
"They've been observing us all day," Sam, the District 11 tribute, says, pointing at the huddled old men in the corner. "Why do we have to meet with them individually?"
"Strategy," Blaine and Rachel say at the same time. They glance at one another, smiling for a moment, before Blaine inclines his head and Rachel continues with the explanation. "Some tributes naturally hold back during training," she says. "That way nobody knows what they're capable of. Of course, others. . ." she nods her head toward Puck, Karofsky, and Lauren Zizes, the massive girl from District Three – all sitting together, and all of whom had spent the morning showing off their impressive strength, "would prefer to intimidate."
"Anyway," Blaine says, cutting in, "the individual sessions are a chance to show the Gamemakers what you're capable, without also alerting the other tributes to any skills or abilities you might have."
"Oh," Finn looks troubled. "I don't really have any special abilities. Except that I can get hit pretty hard without being hurt."
"Um. . .I can sing?" Sam suggests.
"I can do anything you can do better," a blond girl – Rachel vaguely recognizes her as the other tribute from Finn's district – says, as she sits down beside her. Her lunch plate is filled entirely with marshmallows.
"You can do anything," Blaine says sincerely. "You can throw weights, or run, or somersault. . .anything, really."
"And what are you planning to do, oh master of the games?" Kurt says, a little sarcastically. Blaine just shrugs.
"I dunno," he says. "I'm not really good at anything. . .maybe I'll just dance. My grade school teacher said I'm pretty good."
"She said you're enthusiastic," Rachel corrects. She turns to face the other tributes. "She said that I was good."
"Right. . ." Blaine says, a little wryly. Rachel doesn't miss the way that his eyes flicker over to Kurt's. She also doesn't miss the way the other boy smiles toothlessly, his eyes sparkling.
Let them have their fun, she thinks fiercely. She's trained her whole life for the Games, and she'll show them then just who Rachel Berry is.
After lunch they are all brought to a large, empty room to await their private sessions with the Gamemakers. David Karofsky goes first, as the male tribute from District One, followed by Quinn Fabray. Blaine is third.
"Hey," Rachel says, reaching out and grabbing his wrist before he goes in. "You are absolutely amazing," she says, sincerely. "Just show them how fantastic you are, okay? No games. This matters."
"Of course it does, Rach," Blaine says with a charming grin, before walking in. Rachel just sits back to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Usually the private sessions last fifteen to thirty minutes. Rachel glances at her watch. It's now been almost an hour.
"What the fuck is that hobbit doing?" Santana asks, idly shaping her nails with a long, blood red emory board. "I needs to get me a little action."
"Maybe he decided to take a nap," Brittany says, her voice sounding completely serious.
It's only a few minutes later that Rachel is finally allowed in.
She's a little surprised by the room. There's a table where the Gamemakers are sitting – all familiar, old faces, seen at every year's Games. She had thought that they had a new Gamemaker this year – she vaguely remembers pictres of a pretty young woman – but she's only facing old men, so that must have been a false, bit of yellow journalism. They're all watching her with arch expressions on their faces. She takes a deep breath, before smiling at them with a bright, charming expression.
This is what she's been training for her entire life.
Xxx
That night she, Blaine, Shelby, and their stylists gather in front of the television to watch the announcing of the scores. Blaine has resolutely refused to tell her what he did while in his private session, even after she'd explained in detail, her own performance (which included gymnastics, shadowboxing, weightlifting, and of course, her exquisite singing).
There's no extravagance to the proceedings: nothing as glamorous as the Opening ceremonies, or even with the pomp and circumstance of the Reaping. Instead, it's a simple program displaying a picture of a tribute, alongside his name and score. The simplicity has a drama of its own, and Rachel finds herself absolutely breathless with anticipation. Most Careers receive somewhere in the 8 – 10 range of scores, and she will be absolutely devastated if she doesn't score similarly. Of course, she's really shooting for an 11, which is exceptionally high (even Rachel Berry doesn't dream of the unheard of 12).
Dave Karofsky's heavyset features are shown first. A moment later a number flickers at the bottom: 9 Not surprising.
"Well, we knew that," Shelby says soothingly. "No need to worry yet."
No need to worry, Rachel reminds herself. After all, the numbers don't mean anything. . .they're just predictive.
Then again. . .the predictions usually come true.
Quinn Fabray gets a 10, which is a bit more surprising. Then again, Rachel can appreciate the way that a tiny frame can result in extraordinary results. After all, she herself is below average height, yet she knows that her years of training and single-minded determination make her a vicious foe.
Then Blaine's face comes up, mouth gently smiling and eyes smoldering.
"Oh," Rachel says in surprise. "Blaine, that is a very appealing picture of you."
"Sexy," Shelby says with a smile. "You'll get yourself plenty of female sponsors just based on that photo."
Blaine blushes a little, and Rachel reaches out to ruffle his curls. Her hand, however, shifts quickly to a vicelike grip when his score flashes on the screen.
12.
"How did you do that?" she screams, hurling herself at him. She's not angry or scared. . .she mostly just feels horribly betrayed. He's been pretending that he doesn't have any incredible skills, that there's nothing he has to show the Gamemakers, and here he's gotten the highest score in the history of the Games. The highest score possible.
"What did you do?" she screams, distracted enough that she doesn't even glance at the television for the rest of the program. (Well, that's not entirely true – she does sneak a glance at her own score – a highly respectable 8) before glaring at her best friend.
"I didn't want to tell you before the scores," Blaine says. "I knew it would either get me a high score or a low one. I didn't want you to freak out if it wasn't necessary."
"What did you do?"
"I. . .um. . .I kind of killed a Gamemaker," Blaine says. Rachel's mouth falls open, and Shelby gasps in surprise. "I told them that I don't have any talents. . .just dancing," Blaine tries to explain. "And then I told them that I'm not particularly good without a partner. And I talked the newest Gamemaker – the woman – into dancing with me. And then I broke her neck."
Rachel reaches out and slaps him. "What were you thinking?" she asks. "They could have killed you. They could have kicked you out of the Games. How could you do such a thing?"
Blaine glares at her then, his eyes cold and dark. She shivers a little, because she's never seen him looking so angry before. Even Shelby backs a little away from him.
"I'm only good at one thing, Rachel," he says. "And that's charming idiots into thinking I'm harmless. I had to make sure that they understood – I can play nice, but I'm not."
Rachel continues to gape at him as he stands up, and brushes off his pants. "I don't expect to win the Games," he says harshly. "I don't even want to. I couldn't live with myself if I let you die. But I won't be killed by a stupid kid. And now everyone knows it."
He leaves the room. Rachel, not sure what else to do, just turns her attention back to the screen. It's flickering through the very last of the tributes, by this point: District Twelve. Both Santana and Noah receives scores of 9. The announcer comments that this is the most dangerous group of tributes ever.
Rachel takes a deep breath and begins to cry.
AN: Blaine is a badass! Who saw that coming? Hmm. . .sounds like there might be a little more to Blainey-kins than we all knew. . .
COMING SOON: The interviews! Some tributes shine (uh, Quinn and Blaine, duh); some tributes fail (Brittany?) and everyone gets ready for their last night before entering the arena.
