Like tradition goes, every tribute had the opportunity to talk to their loved ones before they made their way to certain death, or happened on a chance to draw a lucky straw.

The simple "I love you's," were the most common phrase exchanged. The time came and the twenty four contestants were herded onto trains and the hustle and bustle of the pre-games began. The expensive room the tributes made their goodbyes in sat alone, with the carpets wet from tears and the air still lingering with tension.

The train was horrible, although most everyone managed. If one couldn't survive the simplest of challenges, the Games to come would surely prove to be a more powerful source of dread and the participator wouldn't be having such a swell time. If one was worried now, they might need a hug and kiss goodnight. The reassurance that everything was alright was irrelevant to the listener. They'd had enough of the lies, enough of the make believe the world had become.

Deep reflection occurred on many nights - apparently, society preferred this make believe fantasy world over what was the truth. But when the two merged, the change was more powerful than the blast of a supernova star, mending atoms into one. The change created a deep swelling emotion - a different, cruel, demon's way of thinking. When the worlds collided, you got the Hunger Games.

*.*.*

Once each contestant was off the train, each were assigned a separate room and a mentor. For the next two days, they would train in utter silence in a room filled with weaponry, knowledge resources, and the screaming silence of being alone.

Afterwards, the tributes were released with one another. They had the chance to interact, and chat it up all their little hearts desired. Here lie the Pre-Games. Drama at the top of it's class.

*.*.*

Misson Asteradale fumbled with his glasses, then resorted to tucking them away in his pocket. He repetitively glanced up at the female contestants - not because he was a creep, let his good nature forbid. But because he was surveying the competition, and pondering alliances. Misson was unrealistically smart, his intelligence ranged from a structured family life and the simple term of curiosity. His mentor was truly believed in his mental capability. "It is your mission," the man snorted on a previous occasion. After seeing how Misson reacted, the mentor became serious. "It's your responsibility to use the skills your naturally equipped with. I mean, you need to have your head in the game if you want to stand a chance. There are people who train for this - people who live for this. Live and die," he muttered. "Point across, search for any alliances; don't judge by strength, a true judge is by character."

Misson scratched his head and combed his fingers through the knots in his thick brown hair. He wasn't capable of using weapons - he thought his place on this earth was to inspire; he did it through his writing. Not meeting the physical standards for the Hunger Games - he'd be screwed if he didn't act fast. If he didn't have a solid, mental plan. And that involved alliances.

He thought about the contestants as he wondered through the plant life tutorial. Careers were definitely out of the option - it was merely unheard of that a District 6 would associate with a 1, 2, or 4. Yet again, the association with the capitol's lap dogs would certainly earn him sponsors.

He shook his head again; anyone watching would probably assume he had some weird case of Tourette's.

Negatively, the career's had always been known to be dangerous. Particularly in the field of weapons, where Misson possessed no experience. He focused the field on girls, mainly because they'd be more likely to cooperate. He'd attempted to think his plan through as solidly as manageable.

To his left, Lettie Steam stood contently isolated from her opponents, leaning against the outermost wall of concrete. Her stance suggested a tone of bitterness; all she wanted was some alone time to think.

Misson realized from her poise what she intended - but they were all about to be herded into an arena of death. There really wasn't any time to spare.

He walked up quietly with grace. "Misson, district 6," he held out his hand.

She glanced up, contemplating, and glanced around. "Lettie," she scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. Did her mentor mention anything about talking to the other tributes? Whatever the answer, she didn't care. "Look, Misson. Let's get something straight. If you want to talk to me, fine. Whatever you want, I'll listen. Just realize your messing with the wrong girl," she threatened coldly. Whatever mind game the brainiac was trying to pull, she wasn't interested. She had come here for one reason - besides her 'eternal commitment to the Capitol' - and that was to make her uncle proud. And nobody was going to stand in her damn way.

He lowered his voice. "You…seem…quite determined?" stumbling for a convincing statement.

"No shit Sherlock."

"Why? Besides the obvious reasons?"

"My uncle died in there. I don't plan on messing around."

"Listen. To. Me. I know what's going to happen in there. We could help each other. I may not be completely in shape-"

"True."

"I have the mental capability to perform astounding-"

"Got it, your smart," she retorted. "What do you want from me?" she scratched at her nails. She honestly had better things to do than let him babble on about himself.

Misson calmed himself down. He tilted Lettie's chin up with his pointer finger so they were staring into the deep irises of one another.

"With my brains, and your will-power, we would make a great alliance," he stated. From the minimal information he knew about any of the tributes, knowing that fact would get him far.

"I'm not exactly up for that sort of thing," she shrugged, tucking her hair back into a bright blue Capitol bandanna.

"Alliances?" Misson questioned.

Lettie cut the casual care-free charade. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close. "Look, alright. 23 of us will die in the end of this battle. I'm not going to be one of them. And I don't believe in killing friends."

"Then don't think of me as a friend," he suggested. "Think of me as a way of getting closer to becoming the 67th Hunger Games champion."

Lettie slightly raised an eyebrow, thinking. She didn't know how he got to her like that. She'd wanted to do this alone, in fear of having to kill somebody she cared about. But if Misson was for real - by the looks of it, this offer seemed sincere - then she was willing to accept. Maybe he liked her, and maybe he was just trying to help her out because she thought he knew about her uncle.

Of course, neither of these options were true. Misson was only using this as a chance to help himself, but she didn't need to know that.

There was a mutual nod, and not another word spoken as Misson returned to plants, and Lettie dispersed to tend to her bandanna.

*.*.*

Meanwhile, Blake Christopher had been instructed not to show the other tributes what he could do with a scythe. Instead he walked around straight up to Lettie. He wanted to know the contestants from the inside out.

"Lettie, right?" he asked casually.

She looked at him. Honestly, she didn't know what his skills were, and ruled out making any alliances with him then and there. The last thing she needed was someone else to worry about.

"I'm Blake."

"That's good for you," she walked in the opposite direction, but he followed.

"I couldn't help but overhear…the first part of your conversation with Misson."

"What, so you were eavesdropping?" She turned to him, agitated.

Lettie would keep a close eye on him. He was only 14, and obviously stealthy enough to drop in on personal conversations. Maybe he was the stalk you silently and kill you in your sleep type.

"I heard you say your uncle participated in the games?"

"That's none of your damn business, so leave me alone," she glared at him with a sneer.

"Well, my dad competed in the games as well!" he called to her, not thinking. Acting without the proper contemplation.

She turned on her heels; this sparked her oh-so casual interest. "Which games?" She thought back to who won the 51st games. The one's her uncle had died in. She swore, if he said 51. The times her uncle were in the were hard on her family and left a long, lasting impression of sorrow and sadness. It definitely wasn't something she was ever going to forget, or willing to. She had come here to honor their family's name, even seeing as she was reaped.

There lie a strong reason beneath Lettie's heart, and there also, was a will to live on.

Blake smiled ever so slightly. He never assumed her uncle and his dad would ever be in the same games. For, her uncle had the last name of Field. Roy Field, because he was on Lettie's mother's side, and Blake had no way of knowing that. He had no way of knowing that Lettie despised Tate Smyth, Blake's father. Because Blake had inherited his mother's maiden name. He had no way of knowing what he'd just walked into with a stride. "The fifty first," he shrugged. "My father's name is Tate Smyth."

Lettie's eyes widened as her face flushed with a bright crimson. Her breathing was sharp and her jaw was clenched. Her hands formed snow white fists from the pressure she applied. But Blake was oblivious to the situation, and assumed Lettie walked away as a gesture of boredom. He assumed her sneer was one of boredom. But he should of known better - known how she'd forever despise the way Blake's lips curled around the simple word of is.

*.*.*

Molly James was fiddling with a bamboo shoot at a station she excelled at. She blew into the instrument, shooting a faux poisoned dart directly into the heart of a dummy. It stuck in it's chest. She was a perfect aim.

Across the way, attempting to stick a dagger in a stuffed dummy was Leah Hernandez. She was the smallest figure in the room - being a mere 13 - but her Hispanic heritage gave a distinct character. Her hair swooped to her elbows like a straight waterfall of black. For being so young, she may have had more mental capability than many in the vast room.

She could think on the spot, easily, and she knew this is what would last her through the blood bath. Alliances were more of a long term commitment - not quite her area of expertise, yet she was open to them. Someone she was considering was Mollie James, a twelve year old alike Leah, who was of 13 years.

As nonchalantly as she could manage, she scuffed her shoes across the area and approached Molly.

Leah got her talking, and they soon were discussing strategies in hushed tones. Their whispers didn't travel across the gym, so their conversation was as secluded as they were.

The words alliance and friendship rang in each of their ears and it was decided. They obviously didn't need to keep it quiet, seeing as they weren't the strongest or the smartest people in the room. They were two small, frail little girls about to fight to the death, and what was going to last them through was friendship. Maybe it would tug on the strings of the Capitol's heart - maybe it would get them ignored and sponsor-less. It didn't matter at the direct moment. They agreed at the end of their little talk that this secret would be kept from the rest of the tributes. Their 'friendship' approach was a new strategic move and it was distinctly theirs to keep.

Leah was the kind of person to hold grudges - after the alliance with Molly, she looked into the crowd and tried to find flaws with every person there. Liz, who everyone called Kat, had eyes like an actual cat's and always wore a swimsuit, which disgusted Leah. Scarlette Cooper was of Spanish heritage as was Leah, but Leah thought she, herself, was prettier. She saw Sissy, with her round stomach and thought of her as a little slut - she couldn't of have been more than fifteen years old!

*.*.*

In truth, Sissy was pregnant with her second child for a reason. She was married at home to her wonderful husband Harrison, and their bouncing little girl Lexi. Lexi's head was too big for her tiny body, and as she waddled around she tipped over often. She was just learning to walk, that little angel. Sissy and Harrison had decided to have a second child in case of this - it was Sissy's last year in the reaping. If she was to get reaped, their family's plans would be shattered. They had planned on three children, wanting to raise them to oppose the Capitol. Their family lived in district ten - they had no reason to go with the Capitol's flow, anyway.

Sadly, the pregnancy's timing was quite unfortunate. Sissy was shocked and cried as she took the place as district ten's female tribute. She kissed Harrison goodbye, and told him she loved him. "I think we both know what's going to happen in there," her hand shook as she took his. "They'll send our baby back to you. Tell Lexi I loved her."

Those were her last haunting words to him as he excused himself from the room. He would have to find a way to watch his wife die - or live - without Lexi there to accompany him. He would always have an empty space in his heart for Sissy if she failed to make it out alive.

*.*.*

Cormac Tann was busy practicing his knot tying skills at the rope and knot station. A woman with spiky green hair and a bright blue neck was showing him the proper way.

His love of music - especially on the piano - had earned him the label of "piano hands". He didn't mind, considering his hands were long and nimble. Cormac's rope making skills outshone any other of his talents, using his 'special' hands to craft the long white thread. He planned to use the skill to impress the judges - but as of now, he simply practiced tying knots, trying not to draw too much attention.

At home, he missed his little sisters - they felt like sisters in a way, even if they weren't technically. In fact, they somewhat felt like his children. He smiled for the first time in a week, thinking of Lannding and Kiersten being his children. When he was much younger, he never would have expected himself to be a single father of two. He smirked again, and glanced up to see if anyone was watching his strange play of facial emotions.

Across the way was Sissy Mallat, who blushed and looked down when Cormac's eyes fluttered up and met her gaze. Shyly and cautiously, she approached.

"What were you smiling about?" she asked. "Wait," she laughed, "That sounded a little creepy. . . I'm Sissy, by the way," she introduced herself.

Cormac contemplated everything he'd been taught to. By talking to her and getting to know her, he might form an alliance. Is that what he wanted? Well, he surely didn't want to travel into the arena alone. But was flying solo better than being in an alliance with someone horrible and not cooperative? Was Sissy even going to be a manageable partner? Wait, Cormac stopped himself. She just wants to talk. You're going to talk to everybody too. Right? Right? Get to know the crowd. Ok, I can do this with a poker face, he decided. Whatever the outcome, he'd either know her for better or worse.

"Hi," they shook hands like casual business partners. "I'm-"

"Cormac, I know. Oh, sorry," she smiled awkwardly. "I guess I kind of knew your name already."

He noticed how nice she was right away, and how she tucked her waist long, wavy black hair behind her ear was cute in a way. Cormac definitely wasn't even considering a relationship. But it was cute - she was cute.

"Yeah," he replied. His voice sounded drab and uninteresting. Like their exchange of names didn't interest him and he wanted to get back to thinking about his sad home life.

Sissy was used to people with bored tones and accusatory manners with her. Her acts of kindness weren't acts. They were real and sincere.

And she planned to break the ice, because under the skin of every competitor here was a real person. And under her skin was two.

"What were you thinking about before?" she asked. Sissy knew people better than anything else. She had time to think during the days when Harrison worked and she was on a short maternity leave. She thought about emotions and the ways people portrayed what they were really thinking. It was often misunderstood and the uninterested observer would be fooled. Besides, she wanted to know what made his smile in a place like this; one of disparity and a black hole of empty dreams.

*.*.*

The day continued slowly with an anticipatory feel to the air. The emotions exchanged between tributes were an example of a bored class of students, wanting to be polite but not wanting to draw attention.

By being polite, at least they warned off any enemies. But being too nice could result in your game plan being exposed for the world to observe. It was a risky game, and like a serious gambler, you needed a poker face.

The entire concept of the games was an illusion. Humanity could never be quelled no matter how hard society planned to push mankind. To the brink or not, their expectation was that it would snap. Just like a twig on the top of the tallest oak tree known to survive, the snap of a quite insignificant measure hinted a bigger more likely occurrence. The probability that humans in general would subside in their course would be absurd. Nature planned everything for us all. But will power can overtake the natural course and set everything out of balance - what has society made the world? The way the Games told their story, the government was to blame.

The 67th Hunger Games? A sad example at how our planet's natural functions needed to be more aggressive. Humankind could cease to exist - because some lunatic craved a sense of power. That power would simply be diminished when man disappeared. Then the sad ruler would sit upon his gold throne and wonder what he ever wanted, while the answer all along was to figure out his course. His actions for too sinful to disregarded. Fate had it coming for him. He just needed to learn to wait. Nature would always keep him waiting.

I know all the tributes haven't been included. But every day before the games is one of anticipation. And I'm a strong believer of which anticipation can sometimes be greater than the actual occurrence itself! So the days will be featured, every character will be featured. Thanks for reading, review at will, and please. Please. Constructive criticism! Thanks!