The training halls were filled with a strange energy that Jughead couldn't place. Entering it felt like entering a strange dream, in a way he couldn't quite describe. There were over fifty stations for tributes to take to practice, but none felt like they were anything he was naturally good at.

"Too bad there's not a speed-eating station," Toni jibed him, good-naturedly, but he was not settled by her joke. In fact, it turned him more on edge.

What if he had nothing to offer the judges?

As they milled, trying to decide where to go, a twang of arrows caught their attention, as well as most in the gym. They turned to see Cheryl, holding a bow and arrow, anchored at her lip, hitting targets with terrifying accuracy.

"Goddamn," Toni said, running her fingers through her hair, "That's hot."

"You know," Jughead started, scratching his chin, "I really don't like that."

All he could think was that if Cheryl got a hold of arrows in the arena, she could pick them off one by one. He wouldn't see it coming until there was an arrow between his eyes.

"I do," Toni said, licking her lips.

"Toni! Where are you-," Jughead started, turning to see her vanished. He sighed when he saw Toni slipping next to Cheryl, a glimmer in her eyes.

"Thanks, friend!" He called after her sarcastically. For as much as he enjoyed being alone, he hated being social more.

He turned, deciding out of all of them, that perhaps he could be halfway good at boxing and fighting. He'd gotten in more than a few scuffles in District 12, a place that could be dangerous if you didn't know where you were going. Perhaps his skills as that he could hold his own while getting pummeled; he couldn't necessarily always win, but he never went down right away.

As he turned into the box, he came face to face with sharp green eyes.

"Following me?" Betty asked, crossing her arms, "I'd say I'm flattered, but-,"

Jughead barked out a laugh, "Oh, you're not that special. I just happen to want to practice this, here. I didn't know you'd also choose it. In fact, I'd almost say you're following me."

Betty locked her jaw, as though that hit a nerve.

"Fine, go on." She nodded toward the simulator. It was apparent she intended to watch him.

Jughead hit the go button and got into a fighting stance, but it was paused by Betty, who let out a derisive snort. Jughead turned.

"What?" He demanded.

"Where did you learn to fight?" Betty asked, sizing him up.

"Oh, the Peacekeepers in District 12 held nice little sessions every Wednesday. They also taught us how to crochet and knit afterward," Jughead said, rolling out his arms and trying to shake away her judgemental stare.

"I know it wasn't like that, obviously. Self-taught or taught by someone else?" She asked.

"Self," Jughead muttered, semi-self-consciously. Anything worth learning, you needed to learn yourself from where he came from.

"Should have guessed. You're going to fall much quicker like that. You should be standing like this." Betty said, locking her feet.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Jughead said.

Betty sighed, "I'm not trying to sabotage you. Promise."

"Okay, why help?" Jughead asked. Betty blinked, as though she hadn't really thought of this herself. She pressed a palm to the cool metal of the switch station, shrugging.

"You're from 12. I think you need all the help you can get." She said, "And maybe you'll be a threat to me, then." She added.

"I'd like to see you do it," Jughead decided, "Since you're so sure that showing me won't come to bite you later."

"No offense, but I've been training for this since I was literally six," Betty said, floating past him. Her perfume smelled something fruity, wholly unexpected, given her temperament. It was inviting to Jughead in a way that drove him crazy, just as she did, "So you've got into a few bad fights. That's not going to make you ready for the games." She said, velcroing some fingerless gloves on and tightening her ponytail, "Watch and learn, Jones." She said, her voice bright and amused.

Given the invitation to watch her closely, Jughead took it.

She began slowly, ramping up. All her actions were so poised and perfect; he thought of his own fighting style, messy and chaotic and feral. She was not like that at all. Each movement was so meticulously thought out that he would think she had eons to contemplate each side of her foot against the training mats, each perfect arc of her kicks, or each quick jab of her fists.

It was like a dance.

And it was beautiful.

He watched the muscles on her back ripple and move; she was in shape, but not overly muscular. In fact, he found himself surprised each time a muscle did show itself on her lithe body, proving that despite her thin arms and tanned legs, what lay underneath was pure drive and practice.

Her hair was like the metallic sheen of gold found in mining shafts, something Jughead had only seen once in his life. And her eyes, the way they glimmered, reminded him of precious gemstones.

She was so focused, and Jughead, in turn, found himself falling into a trance. While he should have been taking notes to try later, he was watching her as a whole, not as individual movements. The entire training section felt like it was an orchestra to her melody, amplifying her with each exhale she made as she made contact with the bodyless holographic figures.

She breathed in the air, gulping it like it was fresh water, never-ending. Her lips, tinged pink, pressed together in a pointed focus, with her forehead crinkling as she examined each opponent that she came across like a mathematician solving a problem.

Jughead was not the only one caught up in this waltz. It was only when he heard rustling behind him that his focus was broken, and he turned to see a crowd gathered to take a view of each perfectly landed blow, never missing one target.

By the end, she stood, flexing her fingers out and making her first aspirated sound, a sigh of adrenaline. She turned, and just for a second, Jughead saw the joy on her face, like she'd just had the time of her life. Her face dropped to see the audience behind her, and just like Jughead was so used to doing, he watched the emotionless detached mask shutter down over her face like someone slamming a window closed.

"Hot damn," Reggie whistled, "You wanna do that with me, little lady?"

Jughead turned a strange feeling, a need to protect her rising within him. He was lucky he stopped himself before he said something. One; he barely knew Betty. Two; she was his enemy. Three; she could protect her damn self, and would probably have been angry about him stepping in.

"You want me to break your nose? Sure," Betty replied back, deadpanned.

"Awe, don't be mean. You know what I meant," Reggie chortled, "If you want to blow off some steam before the games, you know where to find me."

"She won't be doing that," Bret answered for her, and as Jughead had guessed, Betty turned to him, furiously.

"I can answer myself, Bret." She snapped, "Besides," She grinned, raising her chin, "I don't think you could handle a girl like me. You think you'd like it until you actually have it. And you'd find quickly I'm not your daydream…I'd be your nightmare."

"She'd fuck you up, man," Nick shoved Reggie away, "Remember who her dad is."

The flashes of Hal in his games, even the mention of it, sent a cold shiver up his spine. It was almost easy to forget, watching Betty, that she wasn't just raised by a former victor, but she was raised by The Butcher.

If her father found her agreeable enough to train, give his wisdom to (and pointedly, not to his other daughter), Jughead could only imagine that he must see enough of himself in Betty to think it worth it.

And that was enough to break even Jughead from his thoughts of her.

He stepped away. Toni had wandered back over from trying to woo Cheryl and nudged his arm.

"She's hot too, you know. Not my type, but, hey," Toni encouraged, "You should go for it."

Jughead inhaled, scowling, "Naw. That's not why I'm here. You should focus on training," He said, more of a reminder to himself. There was no reason to be distracted.

Still, he couldn't help but shoot one last look over his shoulder. Betty was watching him again, but unlike last night, something in his blood turned to ice.

It was the same look on her face that haunted him, ever since he first saw the video clips of her father's game.

They had the same eyes.

XXX

Jughead didn't sit with her at lunch today.

Archie did, and Veronica, despite the protests Betty made.

Both ignored her.

They both roped Betty into conversation or at least attempted to, also ignoring the fact she wasn't being kind about not reciprocating whatever little band of friendship they were trying to mold.

If Jughead were sitting here, at least she could split the snorts and sneers between someone.

Stop it. You should be overjoyed he got the memo.

She couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment curling in her stomach, as strange it as it was.

She knew it was foolish to focus on anyone so intently, but she couldn't help herself. Something about him, and the way he seemed to unravel her with his eyes, had her equally on edge and wanting.

It was a deep, burning desire for something she couldn't quite place yet, but it intrigued her.

He sat with his District mate, which Betty could hardly be upset about.

She thought, for a moment, perhaps she'd been imagining the looks he'd been giving her until she caught him staring.

And then, like he'd burned himself on her face, he startled and looked away.

XXX

Betty sat on the uncomfortable benches outside the rating room, each District assigned its own seat, going down the long hallway. Betty picked at her fingernails, biting her lip and rolling her knuckles along her athletic pants.

"Nervous?" Brett scoffed, "You?"

"No," Betty waved him away, "Of course not."

But she was. What sort of idiot wouldn't be? The sponsor ratings made or broke candidates and were, in literal cases, the difference between life and death.

"Why would you be nervous?" Reggie scoffed from across the way, "Hasn't your father told you the secret to success?"

"It's not guaranteed," Veronica spoke up, though Betty didn't need defending, "The judges change every year. And there's no telling who they're looking for. Besides; they judge based on everyone else, not against past years."

"She's right," Betty said, finding her voice, hoping it didn't crackle, "They also judge based on the arena…which we have no idea until we get there. So, someone could get a score that absolutely confused us, but would make sense later."

"Wonder if anyone's ever guessed the area based on that?" Midge asked, leaning forward on her bench, and tilting her head.

The conversation lapsed into silence again. Betty found herself looking all the way down and across at Jughead, though she wasn't sure why. There was one time when he met her gaze, and she looked away, scolding herself for even having reason to be glancing down that direction.

"I bet your old pops gave you like… twelve ways to dismember a body," Bret whispered, leaning in, "And I wonder which way you'll show the judges."

"It's fifteen, actually," Betty snapped back, hoping he'd genuinely wonder if she was bluffing, and more than anything hoped her comment would have him worrying he might be one of those dismembered bodies.

Instead, Bret almost purred, "Now you're turning me on, Cooper," He teased.

She bit her tongue hard and pressed her fingernails so deep into her hands that she knew she'd cut her palms. But she wouldn't rise to the jabs. Instead, she turned her shoulder, smiling at Cheryl.

"You're good at arrows, aren't you?" She asked, forcing herself to make conversation with her long-lost cousin if it meant ignoring Bret.

"How kind to remember," Cheryl beamed, "My obsession began right after Katniss won. I decided I would become as good as her…or better," She said, still wearing her bright and gaudy lipstick, a signature, Betty had realized, "I think I have a few tricks on her, though."

A loud noise came over the speakers.

"Blossom, Jason."

The voice was mechanic and a door opened to their left. Jason inhaled, popping his cheeks, before bending down to give Cheryl a kiss to her temple.

"Get them, Jay-jay!" She cheered.

Jason's 'interview' took only six minutes. They didn't see him come back through the door, so Betty assumed there must be a hallway on the other side. As they called Cheryl's name, she stood up, blowing a kiss to everyone waiting.

"See you on the other side," She said, turning on her heels and sashaying into the room.

"You're next," Betty said to Bret, glad to be rid of him, even for a little bit.

"So, what really are you doing?" Bret asked, "You can tell me. Secret's safe here."

"Aww, and ruin the surprise?" Betty asked, forcing a smile, "Absolutely not. Not even my dad knows."

"I'll tell you mine," Bret said, leaning back on the bench, throwing his arm over the back of it like he was almost putting his arm around Betty.

"Pick your arm up, or I'll break it," Betty said through gritted teeth, never losing her smile. It would be a weakness for the other contestants to see two District members bickering.

"You keep threatening me…like it isn't hot as hell," Bret said, laughing, "Actual sweet nothings would be more effective to deter me," He said, refusing to move.

"I'll whisper them in your ear when I dismember you."

"Ooh," Bret shivered, and not in a scared way, "Oh yes, Cooper."

Luckily the automated voice called Bret up next. He stood, straightening his workout kit, before walking, shoulders pressed back, into the interview room.

"Barf," Veronica said, sticking her finger down her throat as he left, "I hope you kick him in the balls in the games."

Betty stiffened, panicked, until Veronica laughed.

"Oh, no one's paying attention. They're all too worried about their scores."

"Aren't you?" Betty frowned. Veronica shrugged.

"My daddy still has a lot of influence in the capitol. I'm not sure I'm worried about sponsors or not from this," She shrugged.

"Aren't you…upset? That you could be watching, never playing?" Betty asked honestly. Even though it was an honor to be in these games, she figured the best way to play their stupid mind trick was to choose to be in it, instead of being scared. But to grow up without the fear of reaping…Betty couldn't imagine.

"What's the use of being upset about things that aren't?" Veronica asked, far too calmly, "Besides…I'm more than you'd think by just looking at me. Just like I figure you are."

"Well, my dad-,"

"Oh, forget your dad. Forget my dad," Veronica waved her hand, "It's more than that," She said thoughtfully. Betty found herself speechless, wondering what Veronica thought she knew about her. Her first thought was that she was going to use it against her.

Everyone is your enemy in the games.

That was her dad's most significant and first rule. Anyone who was being kind was out to get something.

Surely, Veronica must be too.

"Cooper, Betty."

Veronica grinned widely, giving her a thumbs up.

"Girl, you got this!"

Part of Betty wondered if maybe she was just looking for a friend, and was shocked to find how much she wished that.

She's a tribute…don't be dumb.

The inside of the interview room was cold and sterilized. It made Betty feel like she was a bug under a microscope, being meticulously peeled open, with an array of scientists staring down right inside of her soul.

The items she'd asked for were sitting on a cart.

She knew her father expected her to do any of the tasks he'd taught her such as; how to dismember a body in under two minutes, how to make a knife from a cooking pot, or ways to stab a person that would result in immediate death- as well as how to stab to draw out their anguish.

And Betty knew all these things well.

But that was so…droll. So expected from Hal Cooper's daughter; nay, from a District 2 contestant. She was sure Bret had shown some similar skills, because there was still fake blood splatter across the floor, fresh.

But Betty intended to do none of that.

She was showing a skill not ever her father knew. Betty was a master with gears and grease.

It had been unexpected. Betty hadn't realized she had a knack for mechanics until she stumbled into it. Mostly, she'd just been desperate for a hobby that her father wasn't controlling every second of.

She'd started by fixing a friend's motorcycle. And then another. And then a moped. Soon, Betty had her hands knee-deep in car parts, rewiring an old clunker behind her school that no one had made run in years.

As soon as she'd realized that this was something she was good at, with no training, she'd started to think of how this could help her in the games. She was going in…that was final. So, why not find a way to make this useful?

In front of Betty were five of the most common Capitol tech that usually ended up in the games, such as the drones that delivered food or the machine that was used as part of the barrier. She'd studied this in secret three years ago.

"I'm Betty Cooper," She said, greeting the panel, who all leaned forward with piqued interest, "And I'm going to show you how, even with nothing, you can survive with everything."

From five pieces of junk that would be mostly smothering or considered waste, Betty made seven devices to survive in most arenas; from a water purifier to a signal system that spread out five yards in any direction, to something that healed wounds until better supplies could arrive.

She did this in under ten minutes with only the basic hunting knife that was found most frequently in gift packs as her tool.

Of course, she knew it was nothing that someone from District 3 couldn't also do, but she hoped they considered that as a Career, she also knew how to kill. And that this was a very unusual skill for someone from District 2.

In the end, she tried to be as gregarious as possible; she smiled brightly, curtisied, and waved like she was on parade again.

"Thank you for your consideration, and have a great rest of your day!"

Then, before she lost her nerve, she scurried out the back entrance.

In the hallway, she took five deep gulping breaths, trying to steady herself. She felt her heart beating out of pace and tears welling up in her eyes. What if everything she'd just done wasn't good enough?

The sound of a door squealing open down the hall reminded her of where she was and who could see her.

She focused on her father's second tip; Never let anyone see any weakness.

Far out of sight of cameras, the panel of judges, and most importantly - her father- Betty vomited in a plant stand before wiping her mouth and pressing the 'up' button on the elevator, as though she'd had no fears or concerns about her training score at all.