I'm startled awake when someone prods my arm. My heart leaps to my throat as my eyes snap open, but instead of finding another tribute waiting to kill me, I see Crowley's solemn face. Meg stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed and lips pursed. My initial alarm slowly fades into terror when I realize why they must be here.
"Time to go," Crowley says quietly, sympathy glinting in his dark eyes.
The sun is just barely beginning to peek over the horizon. Soft gold and orange hues bleed into the deep indigo sky. A few lone stars still twinkle up above the cityscape as the moon dwindles to make room for daylight. It looks like a beautifully serene morning for everyone except us.
My veins are already flooded with pure adrenaline, and I've only just woken up. Much to my relief, though, I do feel decently rested. I could be better, but I could be a lot worse. At this rate, I'll take whatever I can get.
I draw an unsteady breath in a futile attempt to calm my nerves. Then I notice the weight on my shoulder. I glance over and see that Cas has completely nestled up against me, his head resting on my shoulder and his hand still gently grabbing my arm. He's so close that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can feel his light exhales on my neck, and it makes my skin prickle with goosebumps. He must have moved closer sometime during the night.
I don't want to wake him. He finally looks at peace. I know that the second I rouse him from his sleep, he'll see our stylists and remember what must be done today. I want to stay here, stall forever, never even go to the arena, but I know that's impossible. Despite how much they seem to like us, Crowley and Meg have to take us to our Launch Rooms. It's their job.
I take one last look at the reposeful expression on Cas' face, then force myself to stir him. "Cas," I say, lightly shaking his arm. "It's time. We have to go."
For the few fleeting moments after he opens his tired bright blue eyes, the only thing he sees is me lying next to him. He doesn't even have a chance to form a smile before the sight of our stylists catches his attention, and all the blood drains from his face. At least he seemed happy, even if it was for just a split second.
As Crowley and Meg give us both a simple jacket to slip on over our pajamas, saying we'll get dressed in our proper attire in the catacombs beneath the arena, I can't help but long for the comforting weight of Cas' head on my shoulder. Even though he's still in the room with me, his entire absence leaves a gaping hole in my chest. I can only imagine it has something to do with the paralyzing fear of what could happen in the next few hours.
No one speaks as we shuffle through our dim and silent apartment for the final time and pile into the elevator. The tension in the atmosphere is so dense that I can hardly breathe. Meg presses the button that takes us down to the bottom level of the Training Center, where the hovercraft will be waiting to transport us to certain doom.
The chill from the night still hangs in the air and clings to my skin. More gorgeous colors of dawn begin to seep into the sky—I try to take in as much of the sight as I can while I still have the opportunity—as we approach the landed hovercraft. A sleek ladder protrudes from its belly. Crowley climbs up and into the massive machine first. Meg follows suit. I'm just placing my hands on the cold steel to join them when I hear a terrified whimper from behind me.
Cas looks like he's on the verge of bursting into tears, emptying the contents of his stomach, passing out on the concrete, or all of the above, in that order. He's frozen in place, wide eyes frantically flicking between the ladder and me. I know it probably won't do much good in the situation we're in, but before I climb into the hovercraft, I pull his trembling body into my arms. He buries his face in my shoulder instantly and curls his fingers around my jacket. I cradle his head, listen to the panicked beating of his heart, try to savor every last second of this embrace.
All too soon, we're called up into the hovercraft and forced to separate. I spare him the most reassuring glance I can muster up before I climb the ladder and into the hovercraft. Once inside, I'm guided to a seat where a small breakfast has been prepared for us. I wait for Cas to join me, and then the two of us sit and attempt to eat some of the food. My stomach is a nightmare, but I know I need to eat. Food will be difficult to come by in such large and delectable quantities in the arena.
As the hovercraft lifts into the air and soars over the quiet city, a woman in a white coat approaches me with a syringe. The sight of it alone threatens to make the little food I've eaten come back up.
"Your arm, please," she instructs. "For your tracker."
Hesitantly, I extend my arm out to her. A sharp, stabbing pain shoots through me and twists my face into a grimace as she injects a small metal device underneath the skin of my forearm. It glows for a brief moment before it darkens, looking like it isn't even there at all. Now I'm officially tagged and eligible for tracking, like some sort of animal. I probably just lit up one of the Gamemaker's panels in their fancy control room.
Cas winces when the woman injects the tracker into his arm. He rubs the spot where the device is embedded long after the woman disappears, his gaze staring a thousand miles out. I wish there was something I could say or do to ease his distress, but I think we're past the point of ever feeling calm again. I'm barely keeping it together myself.
We force ourselves to eat a majority of the breakfast before we risk immediately throwing it back up. Then we find Crowley and Meg near the main ladder and sit across from them as the landscape outside the windows slowly shifts to a tranquil forest. No more city. No more Capitol. Just the wilderness where they build the arenas. The closer we get, the more my frenzied mind turns into a mush of frightened, useless thoughts.
I can't stop my leg from bouncing as I glance at the two stylists. Both of them are grim and somber, their expressions shining with pity and understanding. I wonder what it's like to help coach and dress tributes every year, only to watch them get killed a few days later. I'm sure most of the stylists in the Capitol couldn't care less—it's all about entertainment, after all—but something about Crowley and Meg seems different. It's like they actually care about us, who we are, what we're feeling. Crowley even told me that he always tries to accommodate and help his tributes when I first met him. I thought he was lying to get me to like him, but now, as I look at them watching Cas and me, I'm starting to believe they're dreading and despising this as much as we are.
My stomach churns. I have to swallow to make sure everything stays down. I almost jump when Cas gently taps my leg with his shaking hand, but I know what he wants. Without hesitation, I take his clammy hand in mine and interlock our fingers so tightly that I'm not sure if we're going to be able to pry them apart. I don't care.
"Do you two have a plan?" Crowley suddenly asks. "About what you're going to do and how you're going to meet up, I mean?"
I glance at Cas, whose bottom lip is starting to quiver. I have no idea what to do. So much chaos happens right after the gong sounds. "Do you have a suggestion?" I ask my stylist. My mind is too muddled to even focus.
"I'd pick a direction off the Cornucopia to follow and meet up in," Meg chimes in. "Maybe the tail. Run off behind the tail and meet somewhere back there. That's what one pair did a few years ago."
That sounds like our best bet. The tail is a prominent point of the Cornucopia. Difficult to miss. If we can escape the bloodbath, follow the direction of the tail away from the mayhem, and meet up in safety, we should be golden. At least for a little while.
"Do you think that sounds good?" I glance back at Cas again to make sure he's okay with the idea. He only manages a nod.
The windows go dark without warning. We must be nearing the arena. Cas sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes my hand. I lose more control of my leg the longer this agonizing ride drags on.
But when the hovercraft trembles and groans as it lands, I suddenly want the journey to keep going forever. We've arrived at our destination, our final stop, and I'm so sick to my stomach that I can barely think about anything else.
I'm not ready for this.
Meg gets up first. Cas' Launch Room must be farther away than mine. He struggles to rise to his unsteady feet, his hand still clinging to mine, and I don't want to let go. I'm afraid that if I let go I'll never see him again.
"I'll see you soon," I tell him in a desperate attempt to calm my paralyzing terror. "Behind the tail."
He nods, skin ashen and bright blue eyes glistening with dread. "See you soon." He barely moves his lips as he speaks.
Then he releases his grip on my hand and reluctantly follows Meg toward the ladder. I watch him go, gaze at the back of his head until he turns around to descend the rungs, and we lock stares. It lasts but a fleeting moment, but time seems to freeze in place. I will see him soon. I have to. I refuse to let anything else happen. We just have to spend these next few moments apart is all, and then we can regroup again.
But that optimistic thought does nothing to ease the torturous pain I feel when Cas takes a deep breath and climbs down the ladder, vanishing from my sight.
It's like a piece of me is missing. We've spent so much time together upon our arrival to the Capitol that even being separated for launch is enough to stab me in the heart. Surely it's only an hour or so before the Games officially begin, but who's to say our plan will even work? Anything can happen once that gong sounds. We might not meet up. We might get separated for real. Or worse—
Crowley stands, ripping me from my nauseating thoughts. He gestures toward the ladder, and it takes all the strength I have left in me to rise without collapsing back to the floor. My legs tremble as I descend the ladder. My hands are so sweaty that I almost slip off. Once I safely place my feet on the ground, though, a rush of cold air gusts over my skin. It's so dim that it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. When I glance around, I realize I'm standing in a narrow underground passageway, the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. Just above my head, past the dark ceiling, is the place that will be my new home for the days—or hours—to come.
Crowley joins me at the bottom of the ladder and receives instructions from a pair of guards regarding where to take me for launch. He leads me down the tight corridor and into a small room a few yards away. Everything inside is completely untouched and brand new. No one else has used this Launch Room before, and no one else will ever again. There might as well be signs plastered on the wall that say "Reserved for Dean Winchester."
I try to keep my racing mind occupied by taking a quick shower. This will probably be my last chance to feel clean for a long while. By the time I'm finished, my outfit for the arena has arrived in an immaculate package. Every tribute wears the same clothes. Our stylists have had no say in our appearance this time.
I stumble into a pair of dark green—it's borderline gray—cargo pants with pockets lining the outside of my thighs. The fabric tightens near my ankles but is comfortably loose otherwise. Then comes a black long-sleeved shirt that's a bit more form-fitting, but it's still plenty breathable. The material is almost slippery to the touch.
"Both of these fabrics are designed to wick away sweat," Crowley explains as he fixes the ruffled cuffs of my shirt. "I'm guessing somewhere hot or tropical."
I can only hope and pray that I'm not about to be sent off into some blazing desert while I slip on a pair of sturdy black boots with dark green laces. They taper off at the middle of my shins, the narrowed fabric of my pants tucked away inside of them. These must be made for running or hiking long distances. They're very flexible and supportive.
There isn't anything left in the package, nothing else for me to put on before I brave the arena, so I can't suppress a puzzled frown when I notice Crowley retrieving something from his pocket. He heaves a sigh, looking like he has a thousand different thoughts surging through his head. He almost seems worried, or hesitant, or something else that I can't quite discern.
Then I see the small rectangular locket necklace dangling from his grasp on a silver chain.
"Meg and I had a long chat about this," my stylist says with a nervous breath. "Between your courage for saving your brother and the relationship you share with Castiel, you two quickly became our favorite tributes we've ever worked with. Even though you might not believe it, we care about you. So after some discussion and a trip to the jeweler, we decided to give you both one of these."
He unclips the hook of the necklace and clasps it around my neck. The chain is short, so the locket just grazes my collarbone. It'll take a lot for it to fall off. But why is he doing this? I'm sure he and Meg have worked with a great deal of decent tributes. What makes us so special that they worked together to make and gift us necklaces?
"If you ever feel like giving up, just open it," Crowley tells me. "Stay strong out there, Dean. We believe you and Castiel can win this. You have to. For your family, and for each other."
I don't know what to say. He and Meg are rooting for us, two frightened, unpresuming boys from a district that focuses on harvesting grains. Part of me wants to open the locket now to see what exactly they decided to put in there, but I know I shouldn't. I should save it for the right moment, when I feel like everything is crumbling to pieces, just like he said. Despite everything, I trust him. He's helped me more than words could ever describe.
"Thank you," I say, absentmindedly twirling the locket in my shaking fingers. It's pleasantly cool to the touch.
There's not much else for us to do other than sit and wait for a voice to say it's time for launch. Crowley gives me a glass of water to sip on, but even that is a taxing challenge. My throat is so dry and constricted that it's almost impossible to drink. Breathing becomes an arduous chore. I've given up on trying to calm my rapid heartbeat. Relaxation is futile at this point.
Unbridled terror overwhelms me as my thoughts create a variety of horrible scenarios that could happen once that gong sounds. I could be dead in an hour, maybe less. Some other tribute could stab me with a knife, cut my throat open, leave me to bleed out on the ground while they move onto their next victim. The initial bloodbath is brutal and unforgiving. Anything goes.
I start to worry about Sam, my parents, Charlie, what they might be doing right now. Surely there's some big countdown being broadcast to every television in Panem. I can't even imagine the panic they must be feeling, how much they must be fearing for my life, as I am now, deep beneath the arena itself.
My distressed mind is just beginning to fret about Cas and how he's holding up when the announcement I've been dreading is made. It's time to prepare for launch.
My legs have turned into mush. They barely work anymore. Crowley helps me to my feet and guides me toward the circular metal plate in the corner of the room. I can't do this. I can't do this.
"Take a deep breath, Dean," Crowley says. "Remember what you learned. Run, find Castiel, get food and water. Stick together, and don't give up, no matter how hard it gets. You can do this."
He manages to give my hand a reassuring squeeze just before a glass cylinder lowers around me, cutting me off from him and the rest of the world. All I can hear is my own frantic breathing. I can still see him, but not as well as the reflection of my pale, petrified face as it stares back at me, mocking me.
One single, encouraging nod is the last thing my stylist gives me before the metal plate starts to rise. Black spots dance in the corners of my vision as the plate pushes me upward, plunging me into suffocating darkness. Panic swallows me whole. What horrors await me at the top of this cylindrical tube?
I try with all my might to take a deep breath as light creeps into view. Slowly, the glass cylinder begins to disappear, and the metal plate lifts me into the open air. I'm blinded by fear and the brightness of the outside for the briefest of moments, but the very first thing I notice is how unbearably hot and humid it is. Muggy air clings to me, fills up my burning lungs. In the distance, birds I've never heard before sing pleasant melodies.
I barely have time to force my eyes open and take in the surroundings of this hell before the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith echoes in my pounding skull.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Hundredth Hunger Games begin!"