Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

When we arrive in the Square, the first thing I notice is Katniss Everdeen. It is her sister, Primrose’s, first Reaping and she looks terrified. I can’t hear what they are saying, but I can tell Katniss is reassuring Prim that it will be okay. I wish someone had done that for me at my first Reaping. My Mother told me to quit crying because I was embarrassing her. That she had Dad had worked hard to keep us from having to take out tesserae.

The second thing I notice is the cameras. They are on the rooftops, looking down at us. The Capitol is always looking down at us. I wish I knew how the cameras worked. I asked my family once but they couldn’t tell me. I have seen that people from the Capitol, and even some of the richer districts, have small cameras they can use to put themselves on tape. When I was younger I used to pretend I had my own TV show. Ryen and Dad would sometimes indulge me and let me fake interview them. Mother and Michel rolled their eyes.

The thing that scares me the most about the Reaping is that part of me wants to be on camera. Sometimes, in Panem, it feels like you don’t exist unless you are on TV. But being on camera would mean I would have to go to the Hunger Games and I don’t actually want that. I have no survival skills. I would surely die.

Mayor Undersee begins reading from the Treaty of Treason at exactly at 2 o’clock, even though Haymitch Abernathy has not shown up yet. I don’t think Mayor Undersee has much stage presence. He speaks like every word pains him. And maybe it does. His daughter, Madge, is in the Reaping too.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor.

Repentance is a word I had to look up in the Dictionary in our paltry school library. The definition had confused me because it mentioned “sin” which is a religious concept and the Capitol banned religion after the Dark Days because it’s dangerous to have allegiance to anything but the Capitol.

The Capitol is our god now. Today they will pick 24 to be sacrificed to them.

My mother says thoughts like these are going to get me hanged one day. So I suppose I am lucky that Haymitch shows up hollering and interrupts them. I don’t know how Haymitch Abernathy won the Hunger Games; I asked my brothers once and they didn’t know either. He’s an old drunk, Abernathy. But there is something sly about him. Like now he hugs the District 12 escort, Effie Trinket, and knocks her wig askew. I am pretty sure he does it on purpose though I am not sure why he would want to mess up her hair. What difference does it make?

Effie manages to compose herself and shouts, “Ladies first!” Her bright pink hair, and green suit draw the eye. She has stage presence at least even if everyone in 12 thinks she’s ridiculous.

She digs down into the bowl and snatches a tiny slip of paper. But just as she lifts it for the crowd to see, a strong gust of wind rips it from between her long nails. The slip flaps off into the breeze like a bird. Set free, I think. There is some discussion on stage about whether someone needs to go find the piece of paper—someone thinks it landed one street over--or if Effie can just draw another one. Ultimately, a new name is pulled.

“Jetta Chance!” Effie trills.

I turn towards the unfortunate girl. Chance is certainly an interesting name for someone who was just Reaped. She is small. She stands among the 13s but she looks younger, probably malnourished. District 12 isn’t a very big place, yet I swear I have never seen this girl in my life. It’s like someone just made her up. Most people come through the bakery at some point, though some much more frequently than others. She keeps her dark eyes trained at the ground as she mounts the stage in silence. No one calls out to her. Certainly, no one volunteers to take her place.

“It’s time to choose our boy tribute!”

I am wondering if someone conjured this Jetta Chance. Perhaps she isn’t real and she’s been brought in to take a human girl’s place. I might draw her as a woodland fairy later because she is so insubstantial. And that is when Effie Trinket calls out, “Peeta Mellark!”

I am only certain I didn’t mishear her because the boys around me start shifting away uncomfortably, as if I have a contagious disease. I see the Peacekeepers noting me. Slowly, like my feet are weighed down, I begin to shuffle forward. They will come haul me on stage if I don’t go up there on my own. They will hurt me if they have to. I look around for my friends or my brothers—someone.

But I am alone.

Oddly, it is Darius—a young Peacekeeper who once paid me extra to decorate cupcakes that he sent to his sister—who puts his hand on my arm. It’s not menacing, like he is going to grab me. He squeezes, and looks me in the eye. I learned something I am not supposed to know when I did those cupcakes. Darius is from District 2, not the Capitol. People in District 2 are very proud of their tributes. He nods his head, silently telling me to keep it together or maybe that I can do this (I can’t) but it’s enough to make my feet move.

And then I am standing on stage, with the cameras trained on me (just like I wanted, I think). I can smell the booze on Haymitch Abernathy and a strong perfume on Effie Trinket. Jetta is still as a stone. When Effie tells us to shake hands, she barely moves. So I grasp her tiny hand in my meaty ones. She still looks terrified, so instinctively I pull her in for a hug. This causes a murmur to ripple through the crowd.

I look out at the people of District 12—my people—for what might be the last time. Most of the crowd looks at me with confusion. Why am I hugging a girl from the Seam, I know they are wondering. My mother always said I was strange. Then, because my eyes always seem to find her even in a crowd, I see Katniss Everdeen.

And Katniss Everdeen looks at me with tears silently running down her cheeks. I could not be more stunned. I do not think I have ever seen her cry before. She must have when her father died, but I didn’t see it. She’s always put on a brave face.

Does she know Jetta Chance, maybe? Or is it possible she is sad… about me?

So I go off to my doom like I have lived my life--thinking about Katniss Everdeen. 

Chapter Text

2.

More Peacekeepers sit me on a couch in the Justice Building. Tributes are given a limited amount of time to say goodbye to our loved ones and I don’t have time to think of what I should say to them. My mother and father enter first. My father looks even grimmer than usual. It’s quiet for too long so I make a joke. “I guess I’m not going to inherit the bakery.”

I am usually pretty good at knowing what to say. I never quite figured out either of my parents though. Maybe you are not supposed to until you are older, when you can see them as regular people. I’ll never get there now.

Neither of them cracks a smile.

Not long ago my father tentatively suggested that I should become District 12’s next baker. He argued that I was the best baker, I enjoyed it. My mother insisted that was not the “order of things.” My oldest brother, Ryen, would inherit the bakery. That's just how things are done. What difference did it make if I enjoyed baking? Jobs weren’t for enjoying. They were work.

“Son...” my father begins, but he has no more words.

My father doesn’t talk much. It’s like he only has so many words for his entire life, and he is trying to save them for the most important moments. He’s the opposite of me, in that regard. Mother says I could talk to a wall. But if you stay with him through the quiet, sometimes he will find something worth saying. That is why I always wanted him to walk me to school when I was little, not my mother. Moments alone with him are special.

I guess this is my last one. He sits next to me, not speaking, only sitting. I can tell that he is sad. That he is sorry this happened to me. But also that he is powerless to stop it.

I want to cry. I want my mommy to hold me and tell me that everything will be okay. She doesn’t though. She folds her arms across her chest and looks at the floor. She’s clearly angry but I don’t think it’s at me for once.

Again, I search for the right words to put them at ease. I always tried to smooth things over in our house. My mother was volatile. My brothers were high strung and loud. My father was stubborn and quiet. Over the years, I had kept more peace than the Peacekeepers in District 12. But, finally, my words have dried up, just like my father.

Before I know it, time is up. My father puts his hand on my shoulder and looks at me with a pained expression.

My mother finally says something as the Peackeepers lead her out the door. “You don’t have to be noble all the time, Peeta. Just do what you have to do.” She is telling me it is okay to kill other kids. It’s an odd thing to hear from your own mother. But tears spring to my eyes anyway. She hasn’t given up on me yet. “You get that old drunk to do his job. Don’t take any shit from him,” she hollers as the doors close.

I don’t quite know what to make of her advice. Part of me is so happy that she thinks there is even a chance I could do this. Is that what I want? To win? Could I kill someone? If they attacked me, maybe. Or if they were too injured to go on. But I can’t imagine myself among a Career Pack picking kids off one-by-one.

I can’t win, I think. I didn’t even win the wrestling competition in District 12. I like Michel win. He was trying to impress a girl and it’s his last year in school. I thought there would be other chances for me, that it was the right thing to do.

“You don’t have to be noble all the time, Peeta.” Does she know? I always thought she paid no attention to what we did outside of the bakery.

My brothers came in next. Michel looks guilty and at first I am confused because I was thinking about the wrestling match.

“Peeta…” he begins and that’s when I remember he is also eligible still. This was his last Reaping. I hadn't expected him to volunteer for me. I couldn't imagine anyone doing that—throwing their life away.

“It’s okay,” I say, wondering if I would be brave enough to volunteer if he got picked.

“No, it's not,” Ryen says. He means the whole thing. The Hunger Games, Panem. And he’s right, but we can’t discuss that in any detail so what else was there to say? He leans over to hug me quickly. “We’re gonna miss you. Who’s gonna do the cakes now?” Neither of them had the patience for the decorating but I liked it.

He’s crying and Michel is crying so I start crying. Lots of siblings are closer than I am to my brothers (Katniss and Prim, for example). Miche is so like Dad and Ryen so like Mom. I feel like I am the one who never fit. But we have shared a bedroom for my entire life so I know more about them than any other guys in the world. It’s weird to think they will never shake the rickety bunk bed and try to scare me awake again, because of course the youngest has to be on the top bunk. And older brothers are required to prank you.

My brothers hug me. They tell me I am strong. They tell me not to give up.

But I can see in their eyes they already have, and that’s the worst part.

I’m already dead, I think. I look at my hands, half-expecting them to be skeletal. Dead but not dead then—some in between world.

Next, Delly Cartwright enters in a flurry. She throws her arms around me like we are still close friends. I have to admit it feels nice for a woman to hug me, like I wanted my mother to do. Delly is warm and soft. We used to pretend I was her brother, and in this moment I wish I really were. As we got older it was less acceptable to have a girl as your best friend so we drifted apart.

“Peeta, I am so sorry,” she says, and I can feel her tears drip onto my neck, which makes me start crying again.

With a fierceness I have not seen in her before she adds: You are the best person I know. You are so smart. If anyone can come home, you can. Get Haymitch to tell you how he did it.”

“Maybe it was just luck,” I say.

“Maybe,” she admits. There does always seem to be an element of luck to the Hunger Games. Even the strongest contenders can just fall and break their neck. “Just.. promise me you will try. Don’t give up.”

Don’t throw this one like the wrestling competition.

Delly’s words bring back my mother’s. Just do what you have to do. Just try. Talk to Haymitch. It’s odd for Delly and Mother to be so in sync about something because I think of them as opposites.

I hug her back and say, “I'll try.” To play the Hunger Games. To win.

I just have no idea how.

Chapter Text

Effie Trinket leads us onto the train. I don’t remember the ride or the station. I might have been crying. My mind is whirling thinking about what I promised Delly. There is a part of me that regrets it already. I don’t want to hurt anyone. You don’t win the Hunger Games by being passive. Last year, a boy from District 2 was made to bludgeon his ally with a brick to win.  Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.

That’s when Effie shows us the tables piled high with treats and goodies. More food than I’ve ever seen in my life—and my family makes food for most of the town. It’s all too much. When Effie next leads me to “my room”, I spent several minutes leaning over the toilet, feeling my stomach roil. But nothing comes up.

I want to keep my promise to Delly—I do. But I am afraid. I am afraid of dying and afraid of killing both in equal measure. Delly says she wants me to come back. Would I still be me if I killed someone? I don’t want the Capitol to turn me into some monster that I am not. To make me complicit. Is there a way to survive and still be me? Somehow I know the cost of killing must be high.

There is only one person on this train who knows the price: Haymitch Abernathy. I haven’t seen him since the Reaping but he is supposed to be our Mentor.

I throw on a new shirt—the one I wore in the square feels damp with sweat—and peer out my door.

Effie and Jetta are ready for dinner. There are multiple courses. There is even a large chocolate cake that, typically, I would examine more closely. But I am distracted. Haymitch is not here.

He doesn’t stumble in until dinner is over. Jetta looks sick (did she eat too much?). Effie is clearly irritated. The older man doesn’t look as sly as he did at the Reaping. Now he is just pathetic. He is wasted in every sense of the word. No wonder District 12 hasn’t had a winner in my lifetime.

“When do we start?” I ask, finding my voice a bit too eager. He just looks at me like I have spoken in a foreign language. “You’re our Mentor. I want to know what the plan is.”

“Mentor?” he repeats incredulously. Like he never heard the word before. 

“Yeah, our mentor,” I respond, exasperated. “You’re supposed to tell us how to get sponsors and give us advice.”

Haymitch laughs bitterly. “Advice? Oh, um. Embrace the probability of your imminent death, and know—in your heart—there is nothing I can do to save you.” He smiles weakly.

Jetta bursts into tears.

I glare at Haymitch and reach to grab his glass out of his hand. He’s clearly had too much to drink, and needs to be cut off.

Quick as a snake, he hauls back and punches me in the face with the hand that is not holding his glass. I hit the floor. When I look up, he’s trying to lick some spilled alcohol off the side of the glass. “I think I’ll go finish this in my room,” he says.

I reach for some ice under a fruit plate. “You’re faster than I expected,” I grumble. “But my mother hits harder.”  

If he hears me, he doesn’t reply.

I turn to Jetta, who is still sobbing. “I’ll go talk to him,” I say. “He’ll come around.”

She doesn’t believe me.

Chapter Text

4.

I wake early. Working in a bakery, this is pretty much ingrained in me but today it serves a different purpose. I want to catch Haymitch before he starts drinking today.

The train is still quiet. I glimpse an Avox cleaning. I have never seen an Avox before, but I have heard of them.  The Capitol cut their tongue out as punishment for some transgression. I imagine their “transgressions” to be pretty mild, since I am being sent to my death because of the crime of being born in a District.

Embrace the probability of your imminent death, that’s what he said last night. It’s been rattling around in my head ever since.

I know Haymitch was trying to provoke me. He doesn’t want to help. But I have had this feeling—I had it at the Justice Building—that I am already dead, that I am now in some strange other world that is between life and death.

“The Underworld,” I say aloud to no one. The phrase has bubbled up from my subconscious. The Capitol was obsessed with a place called Rome. Growing up, Delly Cartwright had a book about Roman mythology. It had a big, red warning label that said religion wasn’t real and that the book was only for “historical context.” I didn’t get any context; I just liked to look at the pictures. My favorites were the ones of Heroes battling monsters.

Embrace the probability of your imminent death.

I am seated in the dining car when Effie Trinket arrives. She has a new wig. It’s strange to hear her say anything but the same lines she recites on stage every Reaping. I have never actually had a conversation with anyone from the Capitol. We dread the Games every year, but they look forward to them. She is excited, so I listen to her talk about t common tactics and what makes each Victor so popular. I never gave much thought about the game aspect of the Games. There is strategy involved in how you train and present yourself. I need to decide who I am going to be for the cameras.

I discover she is a fan of Augustus Braun, who won a few years ago. The way she speaks of him, you would think they were dear friends, but I she doesn’t actually know him personally.

I don’t tell her that we hate him in District 12. He killed too eagerly. They called him “the Cavalier Career.” It’s one thing to kill to protect yourself and another to go out of your way to do the Capitol’s work for them.

Effie says Finnick Odair is the most popular Victor she can think of. I know there are girls in 12 who have crushes on him. He was a Career Tribute too, but I guess he is too attractive to be despised. I don’t think that is something I can rely on as a strategy.

Joanna Mason is an example of an unpopular Victor.  She won a few years ago by pretending to be weak. The Capitol citizens aren’t particularly fond of her; they consider her win to be ignoble. But I have to admit the idea of tricking my fellow competitors is one that seems more plausible than being as skilled as Augustus or as handsome as Finnick. Afterall, lying to my mother to avoid violence is something I do on the regular.

I am saving that idea for later when an irritated voice says, “She can’t sponsor you.”  

It’s Haymitch. He’s looking at my suspiciously and I’m confused about what I have done wrong. “Huh?”

“Trinket,” he says. “No one employed by the Games can bet on or sponsor a tribute.” He sounds like he's reciting from a rule book. 

I realize he thinks I’m trying to charm Effie, who huffs. “Some people have manners, Haymitch.”

I suppose most tributes don’t want to chat with Effie. She is ferrying us to our deaths. I suppose I don’t really see the point in giving her the cold shoulder. And I’ve gotten in the habit of chatting with all sorts of disagreeable people working the counter at the bakery.

“I’m just trying to get some information,” I say, not sure Effie is entirely correct about me having “manners.” That sounds too nice. 

Haymitch sits heavily and glares. “About what?” he asks and I know that this is a test.

“I want to know… what it’s like,” I say, having trouble forming the thought into words. “To win. I mean, should I even try?”

He looks at me searchingly.

“I promised a friend I would try,” I continue, to fill the silence. “If I am going to lose myself anyway, I might as well die. Embrace it, like you said.”

Next to me, Effie gives a sharp squeaky sound. “I’m going to find Jetta,” she says, excusing herself from the table. I think she knows this conversation isn’t meant for Capitolite ears. Manners, I think.

Haymitch scratches the stubble on his face and then pulls a flask out of his pocket. He sets the thing on the table but doesn’t take a drink. I stare at it and then at him.

“A Victor has ghosts,” he says, surprisingly sincere. “They never go away. Can you live with that?”

“That depends on what my role in their deaths was, I think,” I say, bunching a napkin in my fists.

“In that case you gotta be smart and lucky.”   

Chapter Text

5. 

Haymitch Abernathy and I have not finalized a strategy by the time the Tribute Train enters the Capitol and I am whisked away to the Remake Center. Speaking to someone while sober seems to drain him. My mission tonight is to make a good impression on the stylists and prep team. They can’t sponsor me, as he so helpfully pointed out about Effie. But they will certainly talk about me to the press, who gobble up every detail about the Tributes. I need to be charming.

I am pretty good at being charming. I know I’d sound like a sociopath if I said so aloud. But Mother has always been so concerned with our “standing” in District 12, and making a good impression on the town. There is a group of older women--I think they knew my grandmother--who used to encourage Mother to hit us harder if we talked back.

That is who I imagine is styling my hair and rubbing oddly-smelling goo into my skin. When they want to wax off my chest hair (why?, I don’t ask), I just smile and make a joke about how that won’t take long since I don’t have much hair. I wear the same fake smile I wear when those women ask invasive questions about my brothers’ girlfriends.

I should probably listen to what the Prep Team is discussing, in case it can help in some way. But I let my mind wander to cakes. Maybe I am just hungry. What I wouldn’t give to be back in the bakery right now.

My hair is cut short and straightened with a hot iron. One of the women, who has bright, blue hair herself, tells me that curls make me look like a boy. I am a boy, I think. Why pick children as tributes if they don’t want the tributes to look like children?

I am getting very good at not asking questions aloud.

They put a gel that stings a bit on my face and tell me it will keep me from growing facial hair. The Capitol is not a fan of body hair, I note.

Then they are done. I am left alone and naked in the Remake Room to await the appearance of my Stylist. I am nervous because Haymitch says I need this person in order to succeed. What if I get someone with terrible taste? How would I even know? I don’t understand Capitol fashion at all.

I am surprised when a normal-looking woman appears in the door. She is wearing a black dress and makeup, but other than her somewhat eccentric asymmetrical haircut, she wouldn’t stand out too much in District 12.  She greets me kindly and says her name is simply “Portia.”

“Peeta,” I say, shaking her hand.

Portia smiles at me with kind eyes. “I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, but I am here to help you as best I can.”

I nod mutely.

“Did Haymitch tell you about sponsorships?” she asks.

Haymitch didn’t say much at all and might need to dry out a bit before he’ll be of much use to me. “Only that I need them,” I joke, half-heartedly.

She puts her hand on my shoulder in a reassuring manner. “It shouldn’t be too hard for someone like you,” she says.

I don’t know what she means by this exactly. That I am on the older end of the age range? That I am not emaciated? I must look confused because she looks around, like she might be saying something she doesn’t want anyone else to overhear and clarifies, “Because you’re blonde and…” she doesn’t finish, but looks at my arms.

My skin. She means because I am light-skinned. I feel stupid. Portia herself has brown skin that makes me think of toast, warm from the oven whereas I am the color of dough. I have heard Mother and some people around town talk about dark-skinned Seam kids, like it is a bad thing. I didn’t realize the Capitol also prioritized skin colors. They pretend to be so fair on television, but I don’t know why I didn’t assume that was also a lie.

“Being blonde and beautiful is half of District 1’s strategy every year!” Portia chirps.

I suppose it is a good thing to have another advantage, but I don’t feel good about it. “What about Jetta?” I ask about my Seam-born district partner.

Portia looks at me, and I thinks he’s trying to figure out if I actually care. She softens. “Jetta has her own stylist and she’s… more experienced than I am.”

In other words, she can’t help Jetta. Only me.

Portia puts her arm round my shoulder and sits on the metal slab with me. “I know this is difficult, but my job is to focus on you.”

I bob my head dumbly.

“Tonight is the Tribute Parade. It’s my favorite Hunger Games event.” I smile at her because somehow—even though we have only just met—I know what she is really saying. It is the Hunger Games event where no one dies.  Sometimes, back in 12, people can almost get excited for the Tribute Parade. It’s something to talk about at least. “You don’t seem shy. I hope you can have… something like fun with it.”

“I’m not shy,” I confirm. “My Mother says I’m dramatic.”

“Good,” says Portia. “So am I.”  

Chapter Text

6.

Portia helped me into the costume I was to wear. She explained that she usually worked with a partner—his name was Cinna—but they had been separated for some reason she did not specify. A woman named Cassia Creed was to be Jetta’s stylist. Portia and she had different ideas about the direction for our costumes. I could tell that Portia was not fully satisfied with the result.

There wasn’t much to the costume. I wore tall sandals that laced all the way up to my knees. There was a thick leather belt riveted with some black metal (“to give it texture,” according to Portia) and leather bits hung off the belt making a sort of skirt. Portia said they were called “pteruges” in a language called Latin.

Though I didn’t know all the words, I was familiar with this design. The stylists were trying to make us look like Roman gladiators. This design popped up almost every year during the Tribute Parade, because of the Capitol’s fascination with Rome or because the Tributes always rode chariots into the City Center. I was a bit disappointed our costumes wouldn’t stand out in a good way, but also relieved we wouldn’t stand out in a bad way.

The part of the design that Portia was excited about was the headpiece. She said it would light up with “synthetic” fire when the time came. Right now it just looked like a black ring I wore around my head.

As Portia sighed, a man with shockingly orange hair walked into the room and they spoke in quiet voices.

She turned to me. “Peeta this is Flavius”—I tried not to laugh at his name—“he does the makeup for District 12’s female tribute and is going to help apply some to you. Cassia wants more coal dust.” I could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

Several years ago, the District 12 tributes were covered in black makeup meant to evoke coal dust and nothing else. It must have been a hit in the Capitol if they were doing another variation on it this year.  It hadn’t been popular in District 12. I remember standing there in the square, which had gone eerily silent, as our emaciated tributes tried to hide their nakedness as best they could. I had nightmares where I went to school and discovered black powder was all I was wearing.

Suddenly I felt grateful for my belt, skirt-thing and black undershorts below. This I could handle, I told myself. It wasn’t that different from wrestling.

Flavius had a gun that shot out black pigment in little bursts of cold air. He shaded darker in some places and lighter in others to outline the muscles in my arms. He added light reflecting shimmer to some spots as well. Despite my unease about it, I found myself transfixed by the process.

“What is that makeup machine called?” I asked, surprising myself.

“It’s an airbrush,” he said like I should have known that. Like this was some basic tool everyone had. Maybe if you were a makeup artist in the Capitol it was.

“I wish I had one for decorating the cakes in the bakery,” I said, as he moved across my collarbone. “I have to paint them by hand,” I explained to his confusion.

“Do you want to try?” he asked.

I did. I laughed with Flavius as I painted on abdominal muscles that I didn’t really have, making myself look like a Capitolite who spent all day in the gym.

By the time Portia returned, Flavius had gone to get a “special” highlighter that he had designed himself and we were giggling as I painted muscles on his boney arms. She looked at us with a hint of exasperation.

“Peeta is an artiste,” Flavius proclaimed.

“If only the Arena were made of frosting,” I sighed wistfully.

“Stranger things have happened,” Portia said as she examined the makeup. “We’re heading down now. You had better go check on Jetta,” she said to Flavius, who scurried away.

As I got off the elevator, the sight of the horses and the chariots stopped me dead in my tracks. This was really happening. I was in the Hunger Games. Portia gently nudged me forward towards the final chariot, the one with a number 12 on it.

On the way, she said hello to another stylist who was working with the female tribute from District 11. Her dark skin was bronzed so she looked more like a statue than a girl, and representations of fruits of all sorts where woven through her gown. She wore a crown of leaves of varying shades of gold, yellow, orange and red. It made her look taller somehow. She was like some kind of immortal spirit of the harvest.   

“That’s Cinna, my partner,” Portia said as she watched me gape. I would’ve loved to look closer at the leaves on her headpiece. They were like the sunset. But the male tribute from 11 caught me looking and scowled, stepping between me and his district partner protectively.  

I held up my hands and turned around. Portia said, “Good work, Cinna,” loudly as we left.

It occurred to me that my own district partner was nowhere to be seen. I stepped up into the chariot to get a better look. I saw that some of the chariots were heading out into the City Circle already, but no Jetta and her stylist.

More chariots left and my unease increased.

Portia said it was time to light my headpiece, but Jetta was still not by my side. Where was she? Where was her stylist? Where was Haymitch? Wasn’t he supposed to be helping us?

Just as District 11 was rolling away, a tiny figure darted from the elevator to meet us. Any relief I had at seeing Jetta quickly vanished when I realized she was naked.

“Cassia!” Portia shrieked at an older woman who strolled up after her, unconcerned. I couldn’t tell exactly how old she was because her skin was pulled too tightly in the way of Capitol people who have had too many surgical alterations.

In a deeply affected accent she said, “The armor didn’t fit her; she’s too skinny.” She waved her hand like it was of no consequence. “There was nothing to be done.”

Jetta shivered next to me. Her eyes were wide and terrified.

My brain felt slow. Jetta was thirteen. She couldn’t go naked into the City Center for all of Panem to see. Surely there were laws… but then I remembered the two from my nightmares. How old had they been? I wasn’t sure. It felt different now that I was standing right next to it.

Unbothered, Cassia Creed all but threw Jetta’s headpiece onto her head like a ring toss game and walked away.

I turned and looked at Portia and was relieved to see the same horror in her face reflected back at me. “Your belt,” she said, and I immediately began to take it off.

Camera people were shouting at us. They must have been confused to see a tribute begin to strip before the parade. But Portia quickly hopped up into the chariot and fastened my belt around Jetta’s chest, attempting to hang it so it looked like a strange, paneled dress.

I felt the horses begin to move, and reached out to steady Jetta who nearly toppled over. At the last second—just as we were almost out the door—Portia leapt from the chariot. The roar of the crowd hit me like a physical thing. All eyes turned toward the dancing flames on our heads.

…  and to me, in only my undershorts.

Chapter Text

7. Katniss and the Tribute Parade

Hunting was good today. I leave Rooba’s place with more coins in my pocket than usual. I shot a wild hog today. I never brought one down by myself before, and not since my Father was alive. Rooba was happy to have pork. It didn’t matter to her where it came from, she said. 

The Butcher had mentioned that not that many families could afford to keep pigs anymore. That had made me think of Peeta Mellark and the pen behind the bakery. I couldn’t remember if there had been pigs there when Gale and I last sold to the Baker. I hadn’t gone to the bakery since before Reaping Day. It felt wrong. 

I distracted myself with thoughts of Prim seeing my extra coins. I should’ve been happy that my sister was safe and not fretting about the baker boy that I hardly knew.

But I had been weirdly emotional since Peeta’s reaping. I hadn’t realized I had been crying until Prim ran over, all worried about me.

“I’m fine, Little Duck,” I had told her. “I’m just relieved it’s not you.”

She must not have believed me because she held my hand as we walked home, something she knew I liked but that she thought she was getting “too old” for. Then when we were home, she brought me tea and blankets (even though it was a sweltering July day) and fussed over me like she did over Buttercup.

It wasn’t until late in the night, when Mother was fast asleep and Prim was curled into my side and she whispered, “He was in your class, right?” that I was able to explain it to her.  Maybe something about the darkness made it easier. 

Peeta Mellark was in my class; that was part of it. Now everything was strange at school because his seat was empty and no one wanted to sit there. I don’t know if it was because kids thought the seat was unlucky somehow or if they didn’t want to admit he wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t though. Madge had told me that winners didn’t go to school after the Games—something I hadn’t known. Even if he miraculously survived, he would never be in my class again.  

It wasn’t just that I had never paid him back for the bread either. I felt guilty about that, but it wasn’t the source of the tears.

It was a lot of things. I felt like District 12 would be a dimmer place without him.

All I could say was, “He took a beating to give me bread once, after Dad died.”

Prim was silent, thinking. Then she surprised me by asking, “Was it the bread with the nuts and raisins?”

My heart hurt. She remembered. I thought she had been too young. “That was the first time Mother got out of bed in weeks,” she said, by way of explanation. Of course, Prim was more concerned about our Mother than the fact that the two of us were starving.

“I never even thanked him,” I confessed, feeling awful.

“But Katniss,” she said, “maybe we still can thank him. We could send money and maybe buy him bread while he’s in the Games. When he needs help like we did!”

We couldn’t. I was sure that even on the first day, bread in the Games was more than the Everdeen house could afford. It was a nice notion though. Maybe Madge and the kids from town would also chip in. I chewed on my lip. If I shot some larger game and was able to get more strawberries from the patch then I might have a few extra coins that I could donate.

And then I saw the wild hog and shot it before school. At school, I found out Madge knew quite a bit about the Hunger Games because she knew Haymitch Abernathy (since when?!). She said the Mentor controls the sponsorship gifts and she could get money to him, if I wanted.

It was like everything was suddenly all about Peeta Mellark.

Prim, of course, was thrilled when I returned with Rooba’s money. I saw that she and Mother had been sitting at the table, mixing tinctures.

“I thought we might be able to sell them at the Hob,” she explained. I laughed at the thought of little Prim in the Hob which made her scowl. “You sold at the Hob when you were twelve.”

She was right, of course but I didn’t want that for Prim—for her to have to always be thinking about where the money would come from. As if reading my mind she said, “I don’t have to, I want to.”

Then Buttercup jumped on the table and made a mess, leaving me to wonder when my little sister had gotten so wise.

I ate very little at dinner. My stomach felt queasy. I didn’t fully understand why. Tonight was only the Tribute Parade. Peeta wasn’t in danger—yet. But the Tribute Parade was supposed to be important for getting sponsors. Capitol money would go much further than District 12 coins.

I didn’t like how powerless I felt. Or how much I cared that I felt powerless.

“It’s going to be okay, Katniss,” Prim said as we sat on the couch for the Mandatory Viewing. I scowled at her because it was the same tone she used with the stupid cat when there was thunder.

We watched the show mostly in silence. Mother stared vacantly. Prim held my hand. It felt nice to not feel so alone. 

District 1 was a big hit in bejeweled outfits. I found myself looking at the boy and mentally comparing his height to Peeta’s. I thought he was bigger, that wasn’t good. Next came the pair from 2 dressed as golden legionnaires. Both of them frightened me. But the tributes from District 3 were both unusually small and underfed. Plus they had terrible metal headpieces that looked like can openers to me.

District 4 wore diaphanous tunics, decorated with starfish and crowns of seashells. The girl looked strong but the flimsy fabric showed that the boy was thin. That was odd for a Career District. The next few districts all had terrible costumes. Terrible not just because they did not look good, but also because I couldn’t get a sense of Peeta’s competition any longer. I couldn’t tell if the tributes were big or small under bulky robes and oddly-shaped headpieces.

I squeezed Prim’s hand involuntarily when District 11 appeared on screen. They looked beautiful in bronze but it was the size of the girl tribute that hit me. She looked so much like Prim. The boy beside her was perhaps the tallest of all the tributes thus far. He looked strong and capable. I wanted him to protect her, even though I knew that wasn’t a fair thing to ask of him.

Then it was time for District 12. 

“Oh!” said Prim, as the final chariot emerged.

District 12 was crowned in flames. It almost looked like Peeta had a halo, with the fire illuminating his golden hair, except the flames danced and threw shadows this way and that.

“Oh!” I said, as I noticed what else he was wearing… or rather what he wasn't wearing. 

Peeta had black powder rubbed over his entire body, and it called attention to his muscles. I knew he was strong—I had seen him lift 100lb bags of flower but… I hadn’t realized…. Well, I hadn’t thought very much about his muscles but now it was rather difficult not to. I felt a fluttering in my stomach.

“At least they let him wear shorts this year,” said Prim, who was thankfully not feeling the same way about Peeta’s costume as I was. I knew my cheeks were bright red. “The crown is a cool effect. But what is that dress?”

I turned my attention to Jetta for a moment. I hadn’t even glanced at her until now. Her dress was strange, kind of lumpy and ill-fitting. I never understood Capitol fashion though.

Peeta was smiling and waving to the crowd, unbothered by his near-nakedness. He had always had a nice smile, and I watched as the Capitol crowd melted under the force of it. As they should. Jetta was sullen though and it seemed to bother him. I watched as he caught a rose thrown from the crowd and handed it to her with a bow. She took it with a shy and tentative smile. I felt myself smiling at the gesture. I hoped she realized how kind it was of him to redirect his attention onto her.

Caeser Flickerman was quite charmed by Peeta’s actions. He called him "Romeo"; I didn't know what that meant but it sounded like a good thing. I bet all the girls in the Capitol would swoon over him. That was good for sponsor money, but made me feel oddly hollow. 

“Oh, Katniss!” squealed Prim. “He’s sure to get sponsors now!” She hugged me and I hugged her back, grateful that I had told her and that she understood why it mattered.

Peeta’s stylist had done her job. The costumes from District 11 were the best, in terms of craftmanship.  But in my opinion Peeta looked the most attractive out of all the tributes.

I went to bed thinking about his warm smile… and his muscles.

Chapter Text

8.

My ears were still ringing from the roar of the crowd. I could feel the blood pumping in my veins. People had nearly fallen out of windows to get a glimpse of me. For the time it took for the horses to travel around the City Center, I could almost picture myself as a victor, as someone who belonged here. I was someone who was someone. I hope Katniss Everdeen had seen me on television, a stupid thing to wish because viewing was mandatory.

It took time for my heart rate to come down. The elation didn’t entirely die down until Haymitch joined us for dinner.  

My mentor was the only person who was not happy about District 12’s performance in the Tribute Parade. In fact, he was furious. The rest of us were already seated at the long table when he marches in. 

“What are you doing?” he shouts. It takes me a moment to realize he istalking to me--that I had done something wrong. I have no idea what it is. Hadn’t I done well? Hadn’t I helped Jetta?

I sit there, stupidly, food half-chewed in my mouth. It 's Portia who rises in my defense. “Don’t worry, I have a plan for—”

“Was this your idea?” he demands of her.

Portia bites back a retort and looks to Cassia, who was falling asleep at her place at the table after drinking too much champagne. “There was a problem with Jetta’s costume and Peeta let her wear his,” she says, keeping her voice mild. 

Haymitch frowns, puzzling it out.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “Effie thought I would get a lot of sponsors.” Effie nods at me, encouragingly. Her eyes tell Haymitch to "be polite." 

With a heavy sigh, Haymitch finally sits down at the table like he's in pain.  He begins heaping rice onto his plate with a golden spoon that made tinkling sounds as it hits the plate. “There are some sponsors…” he begings in a low voice. Then stops, careful of what he is saying since the rooms are so clearly bugged. “You don’t want to attract the wrong sort.”

I am confused. What difference did it make where the money came from if it would help me stay alive?

He must see I am not getting it because he adds, “some sponsors expect favors after the Games are over.”

It still takes a bit for his meaning to sink in. The way he said “favors” wasn’t ambiguous. He meant sex. Some sponsors buy tributes, I realize.

“Oh, Haymitch, that is just a nasty rumor,” says Effie loudly, in case someone is listening, but she doesn't sound convinced. Haymitch certainly doesn't look convinced. 

There are rich people in the Capitol who watch the Tribute Parade looking for good-looking young people to purchase. Like how people look in the window of the bakery for a sweet treat. We are on the menu. Something to consume.

... And I had gone out there mostly naked.

Suddenly, I felt like I was going to be sick.

“I already have ideas for the interviews,” says Portia with deliberate cheer. “Very sophisticated and buttoned-up. I want the audience to get a sense of how thoughtful and intelligent Peeta is.”

What I hear is: I don’t want the audience to think he’s a dumb whore.

Embarrassed, I looked down at my food. It all looks like... too much now. The food, this room, this city. I don't want any of it. 

It is an awful moment where I am mostly filled with the feeling of "want to go home." Of course, I cannot. There is also a niggling voice  voice inside my head that tells me this is what I deserve. Who do I think I am, parading around the Capitol like a peacock? It served me right for it to backfire so spectacularly. I take a deep breath and I try to tell my mother to be quiet. She never listens. 

At the moment, I feel a small hand on my arm. It's Jetta. Her eyes have tears in them. “Thanks for doing that for me, Peeta,” she says in her too-soft voice. 

I finally take a breath, remembering why I had gone out nearly naked. It was me or Jetta and I'd rather have it be me, even if it puts me in danger of being sold after the Games are finished. There's only a very small chance I could win the Games anyway. So what does it matter? 

I want to make a joke so she’ll smile but I can't think of one with my mother in my head. So I just say, “My pleasure, Jetta." 

When I look up Haymitch is watching the two of us thoughtfully. “You got some kind of hero complex, boy?” he asks.

I don't know what to say to that. I do like helping people but wasn’t that normal? Didn’t everyone? Suddenly, I feel unsure.

“Huh,” says Haymitch, still watching me intently.  “Do you two want to be trained separately or together?” he asks.

I don’t really understand the question and am opening my mouth to ask for clarification when another voice says, “Separately.”

It’s Jetta. She looks at me apologetically. “I think my best bet is to hide. I am small and quiet. I am used to not eating much…” she trails off. “But Peeta…you…um...”

“Don’t keep a low profile,” suggests Haymitch with a sharp laugh. I feel my face heat, thinking again about how naked I was in front of the entire country. Jetta does something I haven’t heard before. She giggles at Haymitch which makes me feel somewhat better. At least we have a mentor now. I have made an unintentional mistake, but with Haymitch's help we can both avoid any others. 

“All right, little one,” Haymitch says to Jetta with as much warmth in his voice as he can muster. “You head off to bed. Tomorrow you will go down at 10. We’ll meet and breakfast and I’ll tell you how I want you to play it.”

She nods, bids everyone goodnight in a sweet voice, and leaves the table. Then it is just me, Haymitch, Portia and Effie. Cassia is now fully asleep in her chair and I don’t think she’s faking it.

“So what can you do?” Haymitch asks, dunking a pork chop into a glass of alcohol.

I had been thinking about how to present myself to Haymitch earlier in the day, but my mind is suddenly blank. “I can wrestle,” I offer. “I was second in District 12 last year.”

Portia and Effie make pleased noises. “That’s sure to help in the fighting,” says Effie, almost proudly.

Haymitch, on the other hand, is unimpressed. He scowls. “Second in the Hunger Games is still dead. What else?”  

“Peeta’s an artist,” says Portia. “I’m sure he could do camouflage in the Arena.” She’s referring to me being able to put makeup on today. I’m not really an “artist.” I just do cakes at the bakery and draw sometimes. I appreciate her trying to talk me up though.

“So you could hide,” Haymitch thinks aloud. “But could you feed yourself? Townie kids don’t usually know how to do that.”

I frown. He’s right. I don’t really have “survival skills”, not like Katniss Everdeen. I’d probably eat something poisonous on the first day. Haymitch must be able to tell it’s a “no” from my face because he goes back to drinking.

I am afraid I am losing him. This is my one shot to convince him that I have useful skills that could win the Games. Other traits flit through my mind. I’m personable. I’m strong. I’ve been in fights. I’m good at reading people. I’m good with the knives in our bakery. None of those feel like something that would impress Haymitch Abernathy in this moment.

So I say the thing that I rarely ever say out loud: “I’m a good liar.”

Three sets of eyes snap up to my face. I shrug. “If we were in trouble, my brothers always had me do the talking so mom wouldn’t hit us. So I developed a talent for it.”

Haymitch sits back in his chair and looks at me, appraisingly. “I can work with that,” he says finally.”

Chapter Text

9.

I dream of the train to the Capitol and the tables filled with food; except instead of the delicate jellies and tiny sandwiches, the table is piled high with body parts. A man in a ridiculous wig takes a bite of Jetta’s neck. I move to help her only to realize someone is gnawing on my fingers. Frightened, I turn and attack the person who turns out to be Cassia. I hear Claudius Templesmith’s voice, like he is commentating off screen, that the people of District 12 are savages—that I am a monster for harming an old lady. My mother, on TV, says that I was always a “disappointment.”

I am up and out of bed before I remember where I am. I want air but I’m not in 12. This is the Capitol. There must be a window I can open somewhere in this prison. I put on a sweatshirt and head out into the hall. I am surprised that the light is still on in the sitting room, and Haymitch is sitting in an overstuffed couch, looking at a CommuniPad. I’m not sure why he is still here. I wouldn’t stay at the Tribute Center for a moment longer than I had to. I don’t know where he sleeps but it has to be better than here. I’m tempted to sneak back into my sleeping area but he has heard me. I guess I won’t be winning the Hunger Games by sneaking around.

“What are you doing?” we ask each other at the same time. We examine each other.

And, because Haymitch is scarier, I break first. “I wanted some air,” I say. “Nightmares.”

He tosses the device aside. “I’m just reading some Capitol nonsense.” He gets up. “Have you been on the roof?” he asks.

I didn’t know there was a roof. Effie said we were the “penthouse” (which is just a fancy way of saying top floor). “Are we allowed up there?”

Haymitch stands with a yawn. “Sure,” he says, walking towards another door. There is something suspicious about how he is acting, but I don’t say anything because I bet the Capitol is listening to us. Or even watching us on a live feed right now. I have seen how cleverly they hide the cameras during the Games. They could be anywhere. We then head up some stairs.

When he opens the new door to reveal the city’s skyline, I can’t help that I gasp. Lights twinkle everywhere, like stars. We don’t always have electricity in District 12. Here, they have enough to illuminate the entire world.

“Don’t try jumping,” Haymitch says. I discover I have made it to the railing without realizing it, leaning out over the building to see the people—like ants—walking on the streets below.

"Huh?” I say, stupidly.

“There’s a forcefield. Tributes can’t jump.” He sits, heavily, on a slab of granite that runs around a garden.

It shames me a bit that I hadn’t even thought about that. Committing suicide before the Games begin, before they can turn me into their own personal toy. I hope he doesn’t think I am one of those Town kids that worships the Capitol. There aren’t that many in District 12. I think you have to achieve a certain level of wealth before you can begin to consider the Capitol a friend who keeps us District Barbarians in line. Nobody in Twelve is really that wealthy, but some aspire to be.

I don’t love the Capitol. I hate what they do to people in District 12, even if I don’t have it the worst. “I was just thinking I’d like to draw this,” I confess. My family got me a sketchbook for my birthday last year. I had been surprised Mother had allowed it, since she was always complaining about me doodling on bits of paper. But she said she didn’t mind because it would help me decorate the cakes.

Haymitch takes a sip from the flask he pulled from a pocket and doesn't say anything to me. Earlier tonight I had been desperate for him to pay attention to me and now I wished he would stop looking at me so intensely.

“So,” I say, awkwardly, trying to make conversation. “What Capitol Nonsense were you reading?”

“Buncha lies about how a mentor can find the right way to motivate a tribute,” he says, batting at a wind chime that makes a continuous tinkling sound. I think he brought us up here on purpose, because of the noise.

“Isn’t not dying enough?” I ask.

He scoffs. "Apparently not." He looks at me with those appraising Seam eyes. He doesn’t think I have what it takes, I realize. It stings a little, but I’m not even sure I have what it takes. I don’t even know what that is.

Haymitch yawns and beckons me closer to the windchimes wordlessly. “Some mentors would be happy to get a tribute like you. You could be a contender in these games, you know? You have stage presence,”—I feel a brief flash of pride that he noticed—"You are strong. Hell, you do wrestling. Most of the kids I see couldn’t literally afford to do a sport but also couldn’t afford to waste the calories.”

“But?” I prompt, quietly. He throws up his hands in exasperation.

“But you are tripping all over yourself to help the girl. You even did Flavius’ job for him. You’re a people pleaser.” He says it like it’s the worst thing in the world, like I have a disease.

“That’s bad?”

“Hell, yes, it’s bad. You gotta do displeasing things to win the Hunger Games.” He takes and drink and adds, darkly, “You gotta do stuff you don’t like to win the Hunger Games.”

“I don’t want to die!” I protest. He makes it sound like I am a wimp. I’ve taken hits in life.

He sighs and takes another drink. “Not wanting to die and having the will to live are two different things, boy.” This confuses me and it must show. “I’m trying kid,” he says a bit gentler.

“But you think I’m doomed. I’m dead already so I should just give up.” Embrace the probability of your imminent death.

He rolls his eyes. “None of this shit is foretold, boy. You could get lucky. But you are starting out with a disadvantage and that’s not a place you want to be when your life is on the line.”

I sag a little and decide to sit next to him. “What did the article say?” I ask, not at all hopeful.

“Buncha bullshit about the glory of winning the games.”

Glory. That’s the last thing I think of when I think about the games. Haymitch certainly isn’t bathed in glory. He seems more miserable than I am. And, if what he said tonight after the chariot ride is true—and I think it is—there are even worse horrors after you win.

He’s right. I don’t have much motivation. Delly asked me to try, but no more. No one will be shattered if I don’t come home. I feel worse than I did when I woke up from my nightmare. Now when I look up and see a shimmer from the force field, I can see why it’s necessary. Jumping would be faster and less painful. It would rob the Capitol of the ability to use you to terrify children all over Panem. The view might even be nice.

I close my eyes to block the vision out. And that’s when Haymitch speaks again. “There is one good thing about winning the Hunger Games,” he says, idly. “The food.”

“The Capitol food?” I ask, thinking of how Effie was so proud of the meals on the train. It’s nice but I’d rather have stale bread at home and be safe.

“No, the food,” he corrects. “The winner’s district gets gifts of food every month for a whole year. You’ve never seen it, because no one from Twelve ever wins.” He sighs and sounds almost wistful. “You know a person can live for weeks without food.”

The gaunt face of Katniss Everdeen fills my vision. She was starving. I gave her two loaves of bread. It wasn’t much. I wish I hadn’t thrown it in the mud. But somehow that little bit seemed to be enough. Haymitch finally turns to look at me, with an intensity in his eyes.

“The year I won, not one kid in the Seam starved to death.” That can’t be true. People starve in Twelve. Not every day, but it’s not uncommon. Last year, I found a man curled up dead by our trashcans. “Parcels come every month, if you win. Bread, grain, oil. Sometimes there is even candy. Twelve’s the poorest district, you know. We could really use a win. A little bit could make a big difference for a lot of people.”

I can’t stop thinking of Katniss and her sister Prim. They are both so much healthier now. Could a parcel a month do that for everyone in Twelve? Wouldn’t that be worth a lot of suffering on my part?

Haymitch is watching me very intently now. “This is what you think could motivate me,” I say, realization dawning. He is a crafty old man. I am not entirely sure I can trust him, but the idea is appealing.

“Other districts are poor too,” I point out.

“True,” he agrees. “But you can’t help them.” He stands up and heads back toward the door. “We’ll talk strategy at breakfast tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

Chapter Text

When I wake up, there is a training outfit laid out for me by Portia. It’s black pants and a burgundy tunic. I stare at it for a while. Am I really training for the Hunger Games? Like to really play? Until now it had always been such a remote possibility. I know there are people from the Career districts who study and practice for it. I never imagined I’d be one of them.

Instead of putting on the uniform, I head to the shower. There are too many buttons. Objectively, too many options. It could take you all day to make this decision. Which scented soap? Which Shampoo? Which conditioner?

Maybe that is the point. To distract Capitol citizens from any meaningful thought or decision. Instead they can just get really invested in lather density.

I hit some buttons randomly and end up with citrus-scented something squirted right into my eyeball. I miss our stained, old tub at home. The only options were on or off. Sometimes it’s freezing cold because we only get so much hot water in the bakery, but that just makes the process go faster.

The training uniform is still waiting for me when I am finished. I sigh.

Haymitch’s idea about trying to win for District 12 appeals to me. Maybe I am being a coward and am just afraid to die.

But if 23 children are going to die regardless, shouldn’t something good come out of it? Shouldn’t the prize go somewhere it is needed?

People do starve to death in District 12 though, and I don’t think the Career districts that usually win have that problem. Of course, the Capitol never tells us much about other districts, but based on my memories of previous Hunger Games I think 12 and 8 are the districts that seem to always produce malnourished tributes. District 3 sometimes as well. I know 10 and 11 are poor too, but my sense is that they get larger rations only because the Capitol needs their children to do a lot of physical labor.

I sigh and begin to put on the uniform. It’s possible Haymitch is lying to me, particularly about no kids dying in 12 the year he won. That seems incredible.

What I don’t understand is why Haymitch is trying to convince me to fight now. It was only a day ago that he wanted me to accept my fate. Does he really think I have a shot?

Everything is so overwhelming. I decide the best course of action is not to make any decision yet, and to just go to breakfast. Jetta and I are supposed to meet Haymitch before our first day of training to discuss our strategies. If I don’t like the strategy he has for me, then there’s no point in getting myself all worked up.

I must have taken too long in the shower because Haymitch and Jetta are all already at the table and have served themselves. An Avox stands at attention by the buffet. As I load up a plate, I hear Haymitch and Jetta whispering to each other.

When I sit, they both fall silent and I remember that Jetta said she wanted to be trained alone. “Should I sit somewhere else?” I ask, feeling as though I have done something wrong.

Haymitch waves a hand. “No,” he says. “We’re almost finished. Jetta, Effie is going to take both of you down at 10. I want the two of you to stay together, at least for now. You need to learn some new things. Go to the edible plants station, tie some knots, practice building fires. Peeta, you are going to stay with her. At least for now. Pretend like you like each other.”

I’m surprised by this. I thought being trained alone meant we would be separated. Jetta must be as well because she asks, “Why?”

“The bigger kids are going to try to get their hands on pointy weapons and scare all the little ones. Don’t let them get in your head. It’ll be more difficult to single you out if you two are together.” She nods. “All right, let me talk to him for a bit.” She retreats, noiselessly, to her own bedroom.

“Now you,” he says, taking a drink. “Your first problem is that you can’t feed yourself. So you’re going to have to get access to the Careers’ food supply.”

“What?” I say, genuinely shocked. Everyone in District 12 hates the Careers. Sometimes they do let tributes from other districts into their pack but I can’t team up with them. I could never show my face in 12 again. 

“I didn’t say you had to become best friends with them,” Haymitch sighs, irritated by my scruples. “I said you have to get access to the supplies. You’re the Liar, right? Maybe you can sweet talk or trick one of them. Maybe you can steal from them. Today you are going to watch them and come up with some weaknesses. At least one for all six of the volunteers, got it? And try to find an in. Maybe you’ll get lucky and one will be really dumb.”

I don’t know what to say so I take a long sip of the hot brown drink the Capitol calls “hot chocolate.”

“Find an angle of approach,” he slams his hand down on the table. Then, because he can tell I am skeptical of this plan he adds, “And don’t let them hassle the girl. We will talk more tonight.”

I think he has gotten very good at manipulating me. 

Chapter Text

At 10 o’clock am, Effie shoos me and Jetta into the elevator and takes us down to the training floor. Training is located a couple levels below ground. I feel my stomach drop with the elevator and think that we are descending further into the Underworld.

We are the last group to arrive. As an Avox pins a “12” to my tunic, I look around at the other tributes. The boys from 1, 2, 6, 8, 10 and 11 are all taller than I am. I am of average height—actually “tall” for District 12 since a lot of Seam kids don’t grow to their full height. But I am shorter than both of my brothers, and they never let me hear the end of it. In addition, Gale Hawthorne is one of the tallest boys in District 12 and he is—I think—Katniss Everdeen’s boyfriend. So I have grown a tad sensitive about the subject.

I think Thresh, the boy from District 11, might even be taller than Gale Hawthorne. Oddly, that makes me want to be friends with him.

Except for the girls from the Career districts, who are all tall for girls and well-built, I am bigger than all the female tributes. I think I am probably stronger than even the Careers though. They have muscles like you build in a gym, for show. Whereas I lift heavy items all the time for work.

It strikes me as unfair that the female tributes have to compete against the male ones. Their odds of winning are lower to start with. Not that the Capitol has ever tried to make things “fair.” But looking at Thresh towering over the 12-year-old girl from his district while I hunch next to malnourished Jetta, it all makes me feel awkward and confused. None of us chose our height or our gender. 

A woman named Atala tells us all the rules of training and details all the different stations. And then, just as Haymitch predicted, all the Career tributes go off and grab weapons to show off with. The girl from District 1 fires a bow and arrow. The boy from District 1 throws a spear. The girl from District 2 rapidly throws a series of knives into targets. The boy from District 2 cuts the heads of dummies with a sword. The pair from District 4 cross tridents with one another, but are made to stop playing around because we are forbidden from practicing with another tribute. They have clearly trained together before the games.

Jetta and I try to look unimpressed and we make our way over to a station about building fires. I am actually great at building fires because of the bakery, but Jetta wants to practice without matches. I figure I can watch the Careers while she works, and maybe give her some tips.

As Jetta gets her kindling together, I observe the girl from District 1 a bit more closely. I hear her district partner call her Glimmer. She is still shooting arrows at stationary targets. I don’t know much about bows and arrows but I know that Katniss Everdeen is better than she is. My father always points out how Katniss can shoot a squirrel in its eye, so it doesn’t ruin the pelt. Glimmer gets near the bullseye, but never hits it dead center.

I nudge Jetta with my arm and gesture toward Glimmer. “Her aim is good but…” I murmur. I don’t’ know how to finish it without mentioning Katniss Everdeen and the squirrels.

Jetta seems to know what I mean without that explanation though. “She takes too long to find her stance,” she whispers back. “Bad for moving targets.”

“I’ll be sure to run,” I say. “Thanks.” She beams.

There’s one weakness found, I think. Five to go.

Then I show Jetta how to start a fire with a magnifying glass or pair of glasses. The attendant at the station is surprised I can do it. My brother used to do that for fun. I think he liked watching things burn for a time. Thankfully he grew out of that phase. Since I don’t know what Jetta will have with her in the arena, I decide it’s best if she knows multiple ways. If the arena is an old city like last year there could be items like that around, but it’s more likely she will need to use wood, flint, or matches if she is lucky enough to get some supplies.

As we are finishing, the pair from District 8 arrives. They have trouble starting a fire even with matches, which makes me worry for them. I think Jetta can tell I am considering giving them lessons too because she nudges my arm and says she wants to learn how to make a hammock.

It turns out we are both terrible at making hammocks. I end up tangled in cotton. I am sure the Gamemakers, who are watching the training sessions, think I am an idiot.

“What’s wrong with sleeping on the ground?” Jetta grumbles, frustrated.

Jetta rarely says much at all, so her joke catches me off guard and I laugh more than is warranted. If someone asked, “what’s so funny?” I couldn’t explain it.

The Career tributes all snap their heads in our direction. Until now, they were the only kids who talked or laughed in the room. Everyone else stays at their station and quietly works. It looks like they are upset by it. They must think they have failed at intimidating us. Well, I can play mind games too. 

Jetta sees it too because she smiles at me. And then we are both laughing. The kind of giggles you just can’t stop. Soon everyone is looking at us, not just the Careers but other tributes and the Gamemakers. Thankfully, an attendant comes in to tell us that it is time for lunch.

All the tributes have to eat lunch together, but it’s not like at school. There are small tables, and most everyone sits alone, looking sad and miserable. The six Career tributes pull a couple tables together and talk loudly. Remembering what Haymitch said, I sit next to Jetta, shielding her from their view.

“They must be psychos,” Jetta mutters. “I’d never volunteer in a million years.”

That is what we have always thought of the Career tributes in District 12. That they must have something wrong with them that makes them like killing. But Haymitch’s comment from the night before about “finding the right motivation” makes me wonder. Why would someone volunteer? It happens every year since I can remember. We always root against them in 12, but they can’t all be evil. Statistically, there can’t be that many young serial killers running around, can there? There has to be a very human explanation. 

I remember my brother, Michel, and the guilt on his face when he said goodbye to me. Clearly, he had thought of volunteering in my place, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe the Careers are just very brave… or very stupid.

Still, figuring out why they volunteered might help find a weakness.

“Maybe their family really needs the money?” I suggest, but it’s more of a question than an answer. I pull a bread basket toward me and sift through the rolls, trying to find one from District 12.

Jetta looks at the bread, curiously. I explain how there are types from all the districts, pointing out the differences.

“I guess I would’ve thought we all had the same bread,” she says.

Then we’d all have something in common, I think, but don’t say it out loud. The Capitol has too many ears.

I glance over at the Career table again. Several of them are getting up for second helpings of protein and vegetables. It’s what the wrestling coach tells us we should eat to gain muscle mass, but no one can really afford to be that choosy with food in District 12. Maybe it would help to think of them as just wrestling opponents. Someone who is just like me. 

The boy from District 4 stays behind at the table. He looks much smaller without the others around him. I realize he is not one of the boys who I noted were taller than I am earlier this morning. That is odd for a volunteer. Usually they are the largest. He is nibbling on a fish-shaped roll from District 4, but doesn’t seem to have eaten much more.

Maybe he is sick to his stomach? I had felt queasy when I first ate the rich food on the train.

Think, boy, I hear Haymitch in my head.

Why would a small and sickly boy volunteer for the Hunger Games?

Not a psycho, I think. Because there is only one thing that makes sense and as lunch ends and we are called back into the training area, I am absolutely certain of it. He is just like me. He wants to protect his District.

The boy from District 4 is already dying.

Chapter Text

I want to ask Haymitch about the boy from District 4, but it would probably be suspicious if I tried to speak with him on the roof for two nights in a row. I feel certain we are being watched; Haymitch took me one place he knew the microphones couldn’t overhear us. Spending a lot of time there will just get better microphones installed, I imagine.

We don’t like the Career tributes in District 12, but I can feel myself already softening to the boy. If you knew you were already going to die, you could save every kid in your district from having nightmares about being picked—protect your people from the fear the Capitol inflicts on us all—by agreeing to go. If you are unwell already, it might even spare you a long and painful death.

“What are you looking at, Twelve?” the girl from District 4 asks and she bumps past me into the training area.

I must have been staring at her district partner and now she’s angry with me. When I look at her, her eyes are hard and antagonistic.

My instinct is to apologize for staring, to smooth this over somehow. I want to make myself smaller so she won’t him me, I realize. But this girl is not my mother. Showing weakness now will only make the others think I am an easy target in the arena. I try to pretend she is one of my brothers. They always rag on me, but they don’t evoke the same fear my mother does.

With effort, I take one step toward her and lower my voice. “Your partner is a bit young for a volunteer,” I say, as if we have been having an amiable conversation.

Her eyes—green like ivy—narrow. I can see her thinking, still trying to frighten me. “He’s fifteen,” she says, loftily, “Four has had younger victors.” I nod because of course she means Finnick Odair, who was the youngest victor ever at fourteen. “Finnick is one of our mentors,” she adds, in case I didn’t understand. It's an odd way to phrase it. One of our mentors. District 4 has enough victors that each tribute can have their own mentor, so does that mean Finnick Odair is her mentor? I bet Effie would know. 

I cock my head and really look at her. She wants to protect her district partner. Perhaps she is even trying to hide that he is sick. I don’t know any rules against dying kids volunteering but maybe the Capitol doesn’t like it? Or maybe she is afraid the other Careers will target him?

“He must have some secret skill,” I say, a bit louder. I notice the girl from District 2 turn her head our way.

She gives me an exaggerated smirk, like she has some big secret. Then she pushes past me, and again bumps my shoulder as she does so, but I see a bit of relief in her expression as well.

I nearly jump when I turn and see that Jetta is just standing next to me, and has been the whole time, apparently. She’s very quiet and right now it unnerves me. She just blinks at me and says, “I think I want to learn camouflage. For hiding.” She nods her head in the direction of that station. The pair from District 1 are already there, and Jetta has been waiting for me to go with her.

So we go to the camouflage station because I am interested in it as well. I sketch a bit, mostly cartoons to make my brothers laugh, and do the decorations on the cakes. I never thought of using berry juice and mud to create images. I find that I like it. It’s messy but oddly satisfying.

The instructor praises my work so effusively that the duo from District 1 crane their heads to look. The girl, Glimmer, is grudgingly impressed but the boy, Marvel, is scornful. “I’ll still find you,” he hisses.

I am not sure if he is talking to me or Jetta. I think me? Either way, I am not supposed to let him intimidate us. Should I just laugh it off? Should I say something threatening back? The Hunger Games haven’t even started yet and I’m already tired of the mind games.

I can’t decide so I pretend not to hear him, and pass a few leaves to his more amiable partner.

“Marvel is a tracker,” she says, “so you better watch out.” Oddly, she doesn’t say it in a mean way. She’s just giving us the facts. Her teammate is the one who will be hunting down all the weak competitors. Glimmer smiles at me, all friendliness.

I smile back, in the way the older customers at the bakery like. “Noted,” I say, and inch back over to Jetta.

That is when I notice that Jetta’s hands are shaking. This is the thing I was supposed to prevent.

I couldn’t say why I do it, it just feels right. I start painting flowers, curlicues and other things I put on cakes onto Jetta’s arms. “I decorate the cakes at our bakery,” I say, as if I am continuing a conversation from before. “What’s your favorite flower?”

Flowers are what people want on cakes most of the time.

“Uh, sunflower?” says Jetta. She doesn’t sound sure but I go to work, mix some yellow pigment, and start painting one with my fingers on her forearm, like a tattoo.  I think a sunflower is a good choice. They are cheery and sometimes orange. Orange is my favorite color.

As I am finishing the petals, her shaking slows and breathing calms. I just hope District 1 wasn’t paying attention to her, since she’s so quiet.

“That’s lovely, Peeta,” says the instructor, “but not what we are going for.”

Glimmer pokes her head back over to our side to see. “Ooh! Pretty!” she exclaims. “Can I have a rose?”

I have to clamp my lips together to keep from laughing. As far as cake decorating goes, roses are pretty basic.  I raise my eyebrows at Jetta. I won’t leave her again. She rolls her eyes at me, and goes to talk to the instructor, off to the side and out of sight. She is allowing me to "make friends." 

I paint roses on Glimmer’s cheeks, like I am the woman who does face paint for children at the Harvest festival.

I think I may have found my angle of approach, as Haymitch called it.

Chapter Text

At the end of the training day, Jetta and I take the elevator back to the 12^th floor. I spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with Glimmer; she is … nice, but a bit self-obsessed. Now I can feel the silent disapproval rolling of Jetta in waves. It occurs to me that Jetta is quiet but also has a lot of anger she keeps inside.

“I know,” I say.

But Jetta says it anyway. “She’s trying to seduce you.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. That was somewhat obvious, especially since Glimmer had been acting the same around the boy from District 2 earlier in the day.

“She’s trying to manipulate me,” I agree. “And the boy from District 2. Possibly Marvel too.” It’s her strategy.

The elevator reaches our floor. Jetta seems a tiny bit mollified that I wasn’t taken in by this obvious con. She must think I am an idiot who would lose his mind just because a girl touched his arm. Okay, I would if Katniss Everdeen touched me but that’s not the point. Glimmer is not my type and she is trying to kill me.

Effie Trinket greets us at the door. She is all smiles and wants to know everything about our big, big day. What stations did we go to? Who watched us? Who did we talk to? Jetta tells her that I made friends with District 1. I glare at her because this is all Effie will talk about now. Jetta grins back at me with a face that clearly says, “you deserve this.”

I don’t point out that she allowed me to spend the afternoon with Glimmer, that she could’ve come to get me at any time if she wanted to move on.

Haymitch is seated at the table, but dinner won’t be for another few hours. He is also full of questions about what we did all day. Jetta tells Haymitch and Effie about making fires and hammocks. She also mentions a few times she saw the Gamemakers interested in us. I hadn’t really looked at the Gamemakers at all, I was too focused on the other tributes. I realize I’m going to have to keep my head on a swivel in the arena.

“Peeta is allying with District 1,” says Effie, brightly.

Haymitch snorts. “How is getting access to the supplies going?”

An Avox pours me a glass of water, which I gulp down greedily. “Glimmer, that’s the girl from one, is good with a lot of weapons but an expert at none. She’s trying to charm all the boys and will probably rely on her interview to get a lot of sponsors. Marvel is a skilled tracker but he seems to defer to her for some reason. I can’t tell if he’s quiet or if she’s got him wrapped around her finger.” I huff out all the information in one breath. 

“Could be both,” says Haymitch. He takes only a small drink from his flask. That’s progress.

Then there are a lot of questions about District 2. I didn’t interact with them today but the girl throws knifes and the boy uses a sword. Haymitch frowns at me because that is not very much information and certainly not weaknesses like he wanted. Jetta is the one who says their names are Clove and Cato. She thinks Clove is smarter and possibly meaner, and Cato is a meathead who acts like he has already won.

By the time dinner starts, we have only finished getting grilled about District 3 (Jetta has her eye on the boy for some reason) and I worry we won’t be done filling them in on our competition before training starts up again tomorrow. The Avoxes are bringing out the soup when I remember my question from earlier in the day.

“Is there a way to find out who a tribute’s mentor is?” I ask.

“Of course!” says Effie, like this was obvious. “You just check the list on the CommuniPad.”

The three of us from 12 all silently agree not to mention that we do not have CommuniPads, but Haymitch goes to retrieve the one I saw him with yesterday. He starts pressing buttons to start the thing up. Boot it up? Is that a phrase?

“Why?” Haymitch asks, not in a mean way but actually curious.

“Is Finnick Odair the mentor for the girl from District 4?”  I inquire. Haymitch pulls up the list and nods his head. “She said something odd,” I explain. “It got me thinking, there are some districts that have a lot of mentors, right? Could you figure out what their strategy was going to be based on who mentors them?”

“Depends on the district and the mentor,” Haymitch agrees. “Some mentors are good at specific things, but other districts don’t have enough mentors to be choosy.” We all don’t mention that our district is one of the latter. “You think this girl is going to base her strategy on Finnick?”

“Actually, no,” I reply. “I think she’s a fighter, and she probably wanted the attention that comes with him?” That last part is a question. I only watch the mandatory coverage of the games, but everyone knows Finnick Odair. Having him as a mentor must bring more publicity. “She doesn’t like me much. She caught me watching her district partner.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Effie asks. “That’s not against the rules.”

I am not sure how much I should say about the boy, who I think has some kind of terminal illness. I am worried I will get him into trouble, but I don’t know any rules against a district sending a sick tribute. Haymitch must see something in my face because he interrupts by saying, “Huh. Mags is his mentor.”

“I thought she retired from mentoring?” says Effie, completely distracted by this new information.

“Can’t really retire,” Haymitch says somewhat ominously. "She just hasn’t done it for eight years.”

I don’t remember a mentor from District 4 named Mags. If she hasn’t mentored in years that explains why I wouldn’t have. But this information seems to mean something to Haymitch and Effie that I don’t understand.

“What is Mags good at?” I ask.

Effie looks to Haymitch, who focuses on his soup. “Crying,” he says.

There is something that I am missing, but the way he says it confirms my theory. 

Chapter Text

I have nightmares that I can’t remember and I wake too early again. I’d be late for getting up to help my Dad but here in the Capitol training doesn’t start until 10. It won’t take me four hours to eat breakfast, even though they do probably have enough food for someone to eat for four hours straight. They are rubbing it in our faces how “good” they have it here in the Capitol.

… and Glimmer and Marvel have fallen for it, I think. Glimmer couldn’t stop talking once I got her going yesterday. She wants to be a model. She loves fashion, but they don’t have high fashion in District 1 so winning the Games is the only way she can do “what she was meant to do.” Before I was Reaped, sometimes I had dreams of inheriting the bakery and marrying Katniss Everdeen. Then I would feel guilty because… if I inherited the bakery what happened to my brothers? Wouldn’t they have to be dead? It must be much easier to fantasize when the people standing in the way  are strangers and no one will hold you accountable for killing them.

Would I do it? I’d like to think not, but then I didn’t grow up training and looking up to the victors.

In a way, Haymitch Abernathy has done District 12 a real favor by not flaunting his wealth in our faces, or letting his life seem good from the outside. I know some people think the Undersees have it great, but Madge's mother is very sick. It sounds lonely at their house. 

I heave myself out of bed and wonder what I would do if I were a victor. I couldn’t inherit the bakery anymore because my full-time job would be being a victor. That’s all Haymitch does. Maybe I could still get married, but would I want to expose that person (Katniss) to the constant surveillance of the Capitol? It doesn't seem fair. 

I tell myself that none of these thoughts matter. I am already dead. Underworld. Though Haymitch’s voice still niggles in the back of my brain.

Outside my room, Avoxes are just setting up the trays that will keep hot food hot and cold food cold, but the food itself has not arrived yet. I am more than a little disappointed. I consider using the speaking tube to order food but decide not to. It feels too much like ordering someone around for some reason. I hate when customers rush me in the bakery, especially if I am decorating. Food is ready when it’s ready.

I am startled to see Haymitch pop up, bleary eyed, from a chair in the living area. I hadn't known he was there. He smells of liquor and hasn’t changed his clothes from last night. He motions me over. “We didn’t get to talk strategy last night,” he says, swaying on his feet a little.

I am dubious. We talked about everything. Every tribute. Every training station. But, because he looks unsteady on his feet mostly, I go sit in the chair opposite him. At least that gets him to sit down again. 

“The Careers?” he asks, not wasting any words.

“I made some inroads with District 1,” I say. I told him and Effie an awful lot about Glimmer yesterday, “but they haven’t asked me to join their group or anything.” Honestly, I’m not sure I want to join their group. I know Haymitch says I should but I don’t see how I could go back to 12 if I did.

“Who makes up the Career Pack is decided before the Games,” he explains. “And I heard last night that they are recruiting.”

They are? That’s news to me. Glimmer nor Marvel said anything about wanting to team up. “Got Chaff drunk, he said they approached his boy,” Haymitch explains at my confused face.

I try not to feel slighted. Thresh, the boy from District 11, is much taller than I am and he has a powerful and deadly aura. If I were building a team, I’d pick him first too.

“Boy said no,” Haymitch goes on. He means Thresh doesn’t want to be part of the Career Pack, and I completely understand why. I haven’t talked to Thresh but I like him more and more.

Haymitch is looking at me with expectant eyes.

“They just want Thresh because he’s so big,” I say. I’m not as much of a threat as he is. Him saying no doesn’t mean they will need me.

Almost imperceptibly, he gives me a hard look that says, Pay attention, Boy. But then he goes back to looking hungover and miserable.

“’t was the girl from District 4 who asked him,” Haymitch says, as if making an offhand comment. But he doesn’t make offhand comments when he is talking strategy.

I turn the information over in my head. The girl from District 4 asked Thresh to join the Career Pack, and he turned her down. What has that got to do with me? Then it hits me. I almost smack my hand against my head, I feel so slow. She needs someone to back her up when the Career alliance breaks down. It almost always divides by Districts. But the boy from her district is sick and she can’t count on him to be there. She wanted Thresh to take his place and him saying no means… that place is still open.

“Her name’s Marina,” says Haymitch.

“Uh,” I say. “I talked to her a little. I don’t think she liked me much.” Actually, she hated me. She suspected me of plotting to kill her district partner, who she obviously feels protective of. I thought she might hit me, and that reminded me of my mother.

“Today you and Jetta are studying edible plants and throwing knives,” he says. “Meanwhile, make friends,” he says.

I wipe sweaty palms on my pants. Every instinct I have tells me not to approach the girl who is angry with me already. That gets you in trouble. She's not my mother, I think. She's not my mother. But, oh, this is going to be more difficult than talking to Glimmer. 

Chapter Text

At breakfast, I am unusually quiet. Haymitch keeps getting up to puke. That means Jetta has to talk to Effie Trinket, which is two things she doesn’t like at once. I heap several rolls from District 12 on my plate and stare at them. They are made in 12’s style but they aren’t our rolls really. They were made in the Capitol, even I can taste the difference and I don’t usually have to eat tesserae bread. I rip them apart and dunk them in hot chocolate, watching like it’s the most fascinating thing I have ever seen. Really, my mind is elsewhere.

There are two things I consistently have nightmares about: getting picked for the Hunger Games and my mother. I hadn’t really thought of it until now but deep down I might be more afraid of her than dying in the Arena. It's how I learned fear. 

My mother isn’t evil. I’ve only recently started to understand her a bit better. When I was little, she was unpredictable to me. I kept looking for the thing I could do—wash up, keep my station clean, always be polite to neighbors—that would keep her from getting angry. I never found it, because she’s not really angry at me. She’s angry at the world and her children are just the only people she can take it out on.

There are good things about her: she is very smart, especially with numbers. She completely changed the accounting system at the bakery. I am pretty sure that if my dad didn’t have her, he would’ve had to sell it because he does not have a head for business. The problem is actually that she is too smart. Her father was some kind of official at the Justice Building, and he was going to pay for her to get some accounting certificate that would’ve secured her an even better job there. School in District 12 only teaches the basics and about coal, so it was an extra expense that most people can’t afford.

But my grandfather died when she was 19, her training incomplete and suddenly my mother had herself and my grandmother to look after and no job. The Capitol wouldn’t give her a loan so she could continue her studies. She would’ve had to go into the mines, except my father needed a wife. It probably seemed like a solution to everyone’s problems from the outside. My father got a wife. The residence came with the bakery so my mother and grandmother didn’t have to worry about being exiled to the Seam from Town My father was too tender-hearted to kick the old woman out, even though Ryen says she was mean as a striped snake.

My parents’ marriage was not a love match. It was a business arrangement. Michel once asked me if he though mother liked women. That had never occurred to me, but I already knew she didn’t like my father. After that I watched her and tried to figure it out. As far as I can tell, the only person she loved was her own mother, who died when I was little, leaving my mother alone with a houseful of Mellarks.

I must have been four or five when my grandmother told me, in her scratchy and deep voice, that some women aren’t meant to be mothers. That my mother never should’ve had children. It was a difficult thing to hear at the time, since I was one of said children. It scared me to think I wasn’t supposed to be.

Now that I am older, I think she was right. My mother shouldn’t have had children. She would’ve been happier if she swallowed her pride and moved to the Seam to work in the mines. Maybe she could’ve worked her way up to an above-ground job counting the coal. Maybe she could find a person she did love and been content. Or maybe she’d have been happier alone. I’ll never know.

All I know is if I get married it will be to someone I love (Katniss Everdeen). And if I have children, it will be because I want them. Not to pass the bakery on or satisfy someone else’s wishes.

None of that will happen now.

I fiddle with the bread some more. I can feel Haymitch’s eyes on me. I think, bitterly, that he is only trying to help me win because he knows the life of a victor is a lot like being a small child with an unpredictable, angry parent. The Capitol can do whatever it wants to you and you just have to put on a brave face and glad-hand some potential sponsors.

Come to think of it, I don’t think Haymitch is much of a glad-hander. That’s probably why he wants me. Our tributes die quicker without sponsor money.

I know I should follow my heart, that is what my mother’s life has taught me. The problem is, I don’t know what that is. I don’t want to die but I also don’t want to kill anyone or become a victor. There is just no way to reconcile it.

I have no answers when Jetta and I clamber into the elevator for our second full day of training. Tomorrow the Gamemakers will give us our scores. I should really know what my strategy is before I go into my private session.

“What should I do?” I say aloud. Jetta gives me a look. “Haymitch wants me to ally with the girl from District 4,” I explain. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“He hates you,” Jetta confirms. “She’s always glaring at you.” But then she adds, “But I bet if you are nice to the boy, Dallin, she could come around. She is always trying to protect him.”

I look at Jetta and feel remorse. I want to protect her, but I can’t. I guess Marina and I have that in common, at least. “It’s cruel that they make us spend so much time together,” I say, unsure it’s a thought I should voice aloud. “Getting to know each other only makes it harder.”

She nods. There might be tears in her eyes. I look away for her sake. The elevator opens, revealing the training floor. All the other districts are already at stations. We are the last to arrive. I note that Marina and Dallin are throwing knives. Clove from District 2 is sneering at them from the shelter station. She obviously wants it to be known that she is the best knife thrower here.

“Want to come to edible plants with me?” Jetta asks, motioning toward the station. I do. There’s a test to take on what is safe and what is not. Jetta does much better than I do. I haven’t even heard of half these plants. The instructor walks us through the answers. Jetta studies, then she wants to take the test again.

“I don’t want them to say I am stupid,” she explains. “Every year there is a kid who eats something bad or drinks water they shouldn’t and the announcers act like they should have known better.”

I nod. I know what she means. She doesn’t want anyone to be able to say she deserved to die. Because she doesn’t. None of us do. And when we go out, it is the Capitol’s fault and no one else’s.  Just like it wasn't my fault my mother hit me when the bread fell in the fire. 

Chapter Text

“I think there will be poisonous berries in the Arena,” Jetta says to me after looking over the edible plants test for a third time. “The instructor made a point to say don’t eat berries you aren’t familiar with each time gave her talk.”

This scares me. I wouldn’t know any berries. Well, we have put blueberries and strawberries on special order cakes, so I know those. But in the Arena, everything is suspect. This is why Haymitch wants me to team up with the Careers. The food in the Cornucopia is always safe.

I look over to where the two tributes from District 2 are hitting attendants with sticks. I think they remember the year there weren’t very many weapons—just maces—and want to make sure they can kill us all no matter what tools are at their disposal. The girl, Clove, hits the Capitol attendant just below the padding that shields his face, above his eyebrow. There’s a loud crack that echoes through the room and the man goes down.

The Gamemakers stand up and crane their necks to see what happened. Her sparring partner is gracious about it, getting up and shaking her hand to signal to the Gamemakers that everything is all right. It was just an accident. These things happen.

Except it wasn’t an accident. I can tell by the tension in the other tributes’ shoulders that they know it too. Will we all be punished? I could go over to the man, let him know he needs to put ice on his forehead or it will swell. Swelling that close to the eye is annoying.

I don’t move though. I stay rooted in the spot with the crack of the stick echoing in my head. The first time my Mother hit me it was with a rolling pin. It made the same noise. Wood against skull. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. My brothers had warned me not to make Mother angry. Still, I wanted to stay out playing with Delly Cartwright.

Maybe part of me thought that she wouldn’t hit me because I am good and won’t do bad things to upset her. Or maybe it always felt like a surprise on some level. A betrayal.

It annoyed my brothers that tears always sprung to my eyes. Crying only made it worse, and they had trained themselves not to react. But that skill was difficult for me to master. Michel said I was “too sensitive.” And that made it my fault all over again.

In the Training Center, everyone else was moving on. I couldn’t. Those tears. Those stupid tears threatened to come. I knew I couldn’t cry in front of the other Tributes. Even if Clove had hit me in the head, I’d have to laugh it off or be marked as an easy target in the Arena.

As nonchalantly as I could, which was not very since my hands were shaking, I walked over to the bathroom. There was an attendant outside; I was relieved to see he wasn’t paying much attention, just there to keep the Tributes from getting to fights, I think.

The bathroom was empty of people, but I could see a camera pointed at the sinks. Always worried about our safety. I walked into one of the stalls just to feel invisible for a minute. I wasn’t sure if I would cry or be sick or just stand there shaking.

I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I threw myself to the side as a blur crashed through the bathroom door and violently threw up into the toilet I was standing in front of. I hadn’t locked the door. I didn’t think to.

I flattened myself against the metal stall wall, and it made a groaning noise. 

The boy from District 4 heaved up breakfast into the toilet. The smell of it made me almost be ill right next to him. We only had one second to lock eyes—both wide and terrified—before the attendant came crashing into the bathroom and demanded, “What happened here?” Nightstick in his hand, ready to reprimand us. 

“I threw up,” I lied, immediately and without thinking. “I ate too much at breakfast.”

The attendant wrinkled his nose. Clearly he’d been hoping for a fight from the noise. Some action. He made a disgusted noise and turned, presumably to fetch an Avox to do the dirty work of cleaning up what hadn’t made it into the bowl.

The boy from District 4 blinked at me. “Why did you say that?” he whispered. 

Because I couldn’t think of anything else, I told him the truth: “Habit. I never tell angry authority figures the truth. That’s how you get hit.”

Chapter Text

Dallin looks like he is about to laugh but then grimaces. The sound comes out like a feeble choke.

I wet some paper towels and wipe distractedly at the countertops. Dallin goes over to the sink and begins to help me, but I notice he leaves the faucet running. My first instinct is to tell him to shut it off, he is wasting water, but maybe it is like the wind chimes on the roof, something to confuse the recording devices.

We crouch in silence and clean the tiles and the toilet seat. A redheaded Avox arrives and seems confused that we have already finished mopping up. She begins sanitizing the whole area. Dallin seems a bit ashamed. “I’m sorry…” he says. “I’m…” but he can’t say it.

The moment is awkward. I am desperate to ask if he can’t say it aloud, if it’s against the rules somehow.

The Avox touches us both on the shoulder, and it occurs to me that she might know all of our secrets, and doesn’t need to be told. She shoos us back to the training area.

Back in the gym, some tributes have moved to different stations. Jetta is tying knots. She needs to learn how to set traps to hopefully get food. Haymitch mentioned this to me earlier. “I’m gonna…” I tip my head in Jetta’s direction.

“Oh!” he says, his face lighting up. “Knots. Fun!” He heads over and sits on a mat by the instructor and just begins tying his own knots, not listening to the talk. He’s a bit of a strange boy. He easily becomes engrossed in his own work and has intense focus.

Jetta shoots me a confused look. I shrug and sit next to Dallin. He shows me how to do something called a “bowline”. My fingers are not as quick as his. Then he teaches me a clove hitch and a stopper knot, and explains how they are used on boats.

I’m not sure why he is helping me or even how most of these will be useful in the arena. It’s several knots in when I realize he is dizzy and he needs an excuse to sit down. The cool mats and familiar tasks seem to bolster his mood. So I let him teach me more knots.

I am trying to think of the right thing to say to this boy who I know is sick and I think is dying. Most of the things I would like to say or questions I’d like to ask are not for Capitol ears. I’d like to know what is wrong with him, is he okay now, why did he volunteer, and why does his partner hate me so much. None of that seems appropriate.

I am opening my mouth to ask him something about the color of the ocean when he says, out of nowhere, “Do you believe in God?”

That stumps me. I know there were different religions, like the god of the Underworld I read about in that history book. I also know that the Capitol believes in science and doesn’t allow any formal form of worship in the districts. But I suppose they can’t stop you from believing in a god (or the God?) in your heart. It certainly would be nice to think there is something more powerful than the Capitol and that those who have wronged us will be punished in the afterlife. I just can’t rely on that.

Dallin must see surprise and doubt in my face because he nods his head. “I’m not sure I do either. My grandmother has faith though…” then he catches himself, looks around to be sure no Capitol people are listening. They could send someone to District 4, to interrogate his grandmother. Kill her even.

He touches his wrist, where he wears a bracelet made out of a cord of rope knotted together. He shows it to me. At the place where the bracelet fastens there is a smooth rock (or is it a piece of glass?) with writing on it. I can’t make it out. “Your token?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “What does it say?”

“It’s the beginning of some famous quote she likes to tell me,” he explains. “The guy was killed by the Romans.”

“The people the Capitol names their kids after?” I ask.

He quotes: “I am God's wheat, and I am to be ground by the teeth of wild beasts in the Arena, so that I may become the pure bread of God.”

It sounds poetic as he says it, but I don’t understand and I feel like I should since I am a baker and make bread.  

Dallin shrugs and rolls his sleeve back down to cover the bracelet. “Basically a horrible death is how he reached God.”

“…and he became bread?” I ask, trying to picture it. We don’t’ grind the flour ourselves at our bakery back in 12. It comes from the Capitol in big bags that are a pain to transport from the train to the bakery.

“Oh there’s a lot of bread involved. Because bread represents life, and all that,” he tries to explain.

Perhaps I should know more about this God if there is a lot of bread involved. I didn’t even know it was a symbol of life. “So he gets life by giving his life...?”

“By accepting his Fate, he earns a place in Heaven,” Dallin continues.

And that’s the part where I get stuck. “But what if there is nothing after? What if this is it?”

He shrugs again. “At least there is one boy safe in Four because of me.” He grows sad and hugs his arms to his chest. “That’s something at least.”

“Of course,” I say. If it hadn’t been me who was picked then it might have been my brother or someone young like Jetta. I don’t know who it would have been if my name hadn’t been drawn, but Dallin does. The volunteering happens after the Reaping. “I’m sure it means the world to him and his family.”

We are quiet for awhile while I think about bread and life, and we both make knots. Lots of knots. Eventually, Jetta finishes her lesson with the instructor and comes over to us, cautiously, but not shaking in fear like she was around the District 1 tributes.

“Making friends?” she asks, and I think there is a hint of derision in her tone. She would never be friendly with the Career tributes. My instinct is to defend Dallin, who I don’t think of as particularly vicious, but I still don’t know what I am allowed to say about his situation.

“Jetta, this is Dallin from District 4,” I say, trying to put cheer into my voice. “He is very good at knots.”

As if to prove my point, Dallin finishes a complicated-looking knot with lots of small twists. “Heaving line knot,” he says, looking up. He startles at bit at the sight of her. I wonder if he truly didn’t hear her approach or if he is upset he has to engage with her.

Perhaps standing over us makes her feel bigger and braver because she says, “and hunting tributes like me.”

He has the grace to look abashed, but he doesn’t cower under her gaze. “We are just getting this over with as quickly as possible. It’s bad for everyone if the Games goes on too long.”

She puts her hands on her hips, surprised any Career would defend their actions. “It’s bad for me to get to live longer?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “No,” he looks around to see who is watching. “Each day the Games on are TV is a day where the Districts are forced to watch and be afraid. Getting it over with, is best for the districts overall. And,” here he struggles for the right words, “sometimes a quick knife to the throat is mercy if the alternative is a long death from natural causes.” He says the phrase “natural causes” with a wry smile. “Trust me.”

Jetta must sense there is something there because she doesn’t immediately reply. I think about the Hunger Games where we watched the tributes slowly freeze to death, and how gloom hung over the entire district while it went on.  

We are called to lunch, and Dallin stands. “If you see me, I’d hope you would kill me quickly too,” he says, quite serious, but I am not sure if he is talking to me or to Jetta.

Everyone exits the gymnasium. I stay seated on the mats, thinking. I watch as Dallin rejoins Marina, and the two whisper to each other. He points back to me. I think that Haymitch was right, and that she is looking for someone else to back her up when he goes. I’d hope you would kill me quickly.

Despite everything, I am still not sure I could do that--kill quickly. I would rather hide, maybe do camouflage and stay away from the other tributes. But Haymitch is right that I wouldn't be able to feed myself and Dallin is also right that a slow death from hunger is worse than a quick knife to the throat. How are any of us supposed to make these choices? I don't feel equipped and half the tributes are younger than I am. 

I decide I need to talk to someone in the same situation as me, and finally rise and head to the cafeteria to find Thresh.