Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

”And so, on the 75th annual Hunger games, and the third Quarter Quell, as a stark reminder to the rebels that their choices carried consequences far beyond themselves — staining not only their own hands with blood but also those of their friends, neighbors, and loved ones — this year’s tributes will enter the arena as teams representing their respective districts. They will face the arena together and leave together. Fallen or alive.”

President Snow’s words echo in my mind as I stand among the seventeen-year-olds before the stage in the town square. At first, I hadn’t grasped the meaning, never having witnessed a Quarter Quell before. I knew they were notoriously brutal, which made the idea of allowing two tributes to live instead of one seem puzzling. But the longer I thought about it, the clearer the cruelty became. In a normal year, District Twelve’s chances of winning the Games are nearly nonexistent. This year, they’re impossible. If your district partner dies in the arena, you’re eliminated. Dead. And our district haven’t had both tributes survive the initial bloodbath in ten years. 

This year, the stage is slightly larger than before. Flowers surround its edges, but they’re already fading to grey under the relentless coal dust. Trying to make this district beautiful is futile, the coal dust consumes everything, Capitol made or otherwise. The dress I’m wearing is yet another example of that. It used to be a pale blue. It’s grey now. Grey and moth eaten but it’s still the best piece of clothing I own. Technically it’s my mother’s, but she has no real use for it anymore. Unfortunately I still do.  

I’m only vaguely aware of Effie Trinket welcoming us to the reaping. This is my sixth year standing in this square, and if luck is on my side, next year will be my last. The odds aren’t in my favor with my twenty-four slips in the bowl. My sister have two, less than most but far more than I would’ve wished. 

“Ladies first!” Effie’s shrill voice pierces through the silence, echoing across the square. Despite the fact that every citizen of District Twelve is here, the reaping is always eerily quiet — a silence so heavy it feels like a physical thing pressing against my chest. Effie is a blur of orange as she glides towards the large glass bowl containing the names of every eligible girl. The garish color stings my eyes, though it’s still better than last year when she resembled a bright pink peacock. As her hand dips into the bowl, one thought pounds in my head, over and over. Not her. Not her. Anyone but her.

I search the crowd and find Prim’s wide, frightened eyes. I meet her gaze, forcing myself to nod reassuringly, though the lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe. Effie plucks a slip from the bowl and unfolds it with agonizing slowness. Every second feels stretched, unbearable. My nails dig into my palms as I fight the urge to scream at her to get it over with.

The microphone crackles as Effie takes a breath, her voice crisp and clear. “Primrose Everdeen.”

The world tilts. My vision darkens at the edges, and for a moment, I can’t move, can’t breathe. Then I see her, my little sister, stepping forward, her shirt untucked at the back, creating a small ducktail above her skirt. The imperfection created by her tiny frame snaps me back to life. My body moves before my mind catches up, and a raw, desperate shout rips from my throat.

“I volunteer!” My voice is shrill, almost unrecognizable. I push through the crowd, shoving bodies aside. “I volunteer!” The words tear out of me again, this time more steady, though my heart is racing. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Effie looks at me and beckons me towards her and onto the flower-framed stage. “My, my, it looks like District Twelve has its very first volunteer.” She says it more to the crowd than to me. “What is your name, dear?”

The microphone against my mouth feels cold and unfamiliar, carrying a faint metallic scent. My voice echoes through the square, thin and strained, making me cringe.

“Katniss Everdeen.”

Effie claps her hands, her painted lips stretching into a delighted smile. “Oh, how exciting! I bet my hat it was your sister, wasn’t it?” She offers me the microphone again, but I can’t bring myself to answer. My eyes sweep over the crowd — their faces blurred, distant. This is the last time I’ll ever see them. The thought lodges itself in my mind, cold and heavy.

When my silence stretches too long, Effie recovers quickly, plastering on her Capitol enthusiasm. “Well then, let’s have a big round of applause for our courageous volunteer!”

But the crowd doesn’t clap. The suffocating silence from earlier returns, even heavier now. Then, as one, they raise their hands to their lips and extend three fingers to the sky. A District Twelve goodbye. For me.

Because I’m a dead woman walking. 

Effie, visibly unsettled, clears her throat and hurries on. “Let’s move on to the boys, shall we?” Her voice is brittle with forced cheer.

The boy she picks will be my teammate. My fate is bound to his. If he dies, I die. If I die, he dies. My eyes flick to Gale. Even from across the square, I can see the fire burning behind his gaze. He’s too old for the reaping now, but I can see from here what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about how he should stand here besides me. Maybe then District twelve would have a chance at winning. But he can’t and my life now rests in the hands of whoever’s name Effie pulls from that bowl.

“The male tribute from District Twelve is…” Effie unfolds the slip of paper. “Peeta Mellark!”

My head snaps towards him. Peeta Mellark. The baker’s son. The boy with the bread.

Suddenly, I’m eleven again, starving and desperate, crouched behind the bakery in the freezing rain. Peeta, with his burned loaf of bread, saving my life when no one else would. And now, he’s the one who will walk into the arena with me.

If I die, that debt will go unpaid forever.

His blue eyes meet mine as Effie asks us to shake hands. His grip is firm, though his eyes glisten with unshed tears. I look away, uncomfortable with the raw emotion in them. How will I ever repay him? Can I save him the way he once saved me? The questions swirl in my mind, making me dizzy. I can barely think of anything beyond my own survival, yet now my fate is intertwined with Peeta’s.

I’m ushered into a dimly lit room, the colored windows casting soft shadows across the worn wooden floors. The Justice Building may be one of the few decent structures in District Twelve, but neglect still leaves its mark. Cracks snake through the glass, the fabric on the sofa hangs loose, and dust clings to every surface.

“Katniss!” Prim’s voice, high and trembling, cuts through the silence as she throws her arms around me. She’s shaking, her sobs wracking her small frame. “Why did you do that? You didn’t have to do that.” Her words are nearly lost in her hysteria. I crouch down to meet her eyes, trying to soothe her.

“I couldn’t let you go into the Games.” My voice wavers, but I force a small smile and tuck a stray piece of her hair behind her ear. “You have to stay here. You need to take care of Mom.”

Prim shakes her head violently, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “Promise me you’ll try to win. Maybe you can. Peeta is strong, and you can hunt. Maybe you can win together.” Her hopeful gaze pierces through me, and though my own hope fades with every passing second, I nod.

“I promise. I’ll win. For you.”

Prim buries her face into my shoulder, her cries muffled against my shirt. Over her head, I meet my mother’s eyes. She stands silently, her face pale and her expression shattered.

“You can’t disappear again,” I say quietly. “She needs you now. You’re all she has.”

My mother nods, but the heartbreak in her gaze is almost too much to bear.

“I won’t.”

I press a kiss to Prim’s hair as the Peacekeepers arrive, their presence a heavy sign that our time is up. They pull her from my arms, and I watch helplessly as they lead my family away. The door closes behind them with a soft thud, leaving me alone in the dusty room, my heart heavier than ever. I’m not alone for more than a few seconds when Gale entered there room and throws me into a tight hug. 

“You grab a bow and you win, Katniss,” Gale whispers against my neck. His breath is warm, but his words send a chill through me. I pull back from the embrace, searching his face with uncertain eyes.

“There are twenty-four of us going in,” I say quietly. “I can’t win this year. Not on my own.”

“Then you drag that baker boy with you, and you don’t let him stop you from coming home.” Gale’s voice is fierce, his eyes burning with determination. “He’s strong. He’s not some twelve-year-old who doesn’t stand a chance.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “And you can hunt.”

I shake my head. “Animals.”

“There’s no difference.” His whisper cuts through me, colder than the wind that seeps through the cracks of our broken house during winter. I shudder. Isn’t there? As much as I don’t want to, my mind spirals down a path I’ve tried to avoid.

“There might not even be a bow in the arena,” I argue, grasping at anything to push the thought away.

“Then you make one. You know how.” His fingers brush the end of my braid, gentle despite the urgency in his voice. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the Peacekeepers step in. Time’s up.

Gale fights against their grip, shouting something I can’t make out as the door slams behind him. The silence that follows feels heavier than any goodbye.

I don’t expect any more visitors. That’s why I’m surprised when Madge slips in, her face pale but determined. She doesn’t say much — just wishes me luck and presses a small object into my palm. A pin. The golden Mockingjay catches the light, and for a moment, we just stand there, silent.

“Promise me you’ll wear it,” she says softly. I nod, unsure of what to say. I’ve never been good at the whole friendship thing, but maybe we were friends after all.

When Peeta’s father comes in, I tense. He sits beside me in silence, the quiet stretching between us until it becomes almost unbearable. Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small paper bag. Sugar cookies. I stare at them, confused.

“I’ll look after Prim and your mother,” he says quietly. The unexpected kindness makes my eyes sting with tears. I nod and mumble a thank you, unsure of what else to say.

As he stands to leave, I brace myself. Is he going to ask me to protect Peeta? To make sure his son comes home? But all he says is:

“I believe in you. Good luck.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with nothing but questions. Did he mean that he expects me to save Peeta? Maybe he’s just relieved I won’t try to kill his son. I clutch the bag of cookies and stare into nothingness, my mind spinning.

Chapter Text

The car ride to the train is awkward and silent, but there isn’t a cell in my body that cares enough to break it. It’s my first time in a car, but the novelty is dulled by the fact that I’m being driven off toward my potential death. Effie tries to get us to talk, her voice grating in the silence, but neither Peeta nor I oblige. I stare out the window, watching District Twelve fade behind me.

As we’re ushered onto the train, the doors shut forcefully behind us the second we step through. Security measure, or just how they always work? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on a train before, much less anything like this one. Everything gleams, polished surfaces, soft carpets, and lights so bright they make my eyes ache. Unlike the Justice Building, there isn’t a single sign of wear or neglect.

“This train just had a renovation, so everything you see is brand new and just for you!” Effie announces in that strange Capitol accent as she gives us a tour. Neither Peeta nor I respond. It seems like such a waste. I bet the old train looked just as new as this one.

“The Capitol has spared no expense for this year’s Games. Being the Quarter Quell and all. Aren’t you just lucky to be tributes this year, of all years? Not everyone gets that opportunity.” She gestures to the dining table, encouraging us to sit. I scoff but keep quiet. ‘Lucky’ and ‘opportunity’ are certainly one way of putting it. When it becomes clear neither of us are in a talking mood, she mutters something about finding Haymitch, District Twelve’s only living victor and our so-called mentor.

Suddenly, it’s just Peeta and me. We sit side by side in silence, the only sound the quiet hum of the train gliding along the tracks. My promise to Prim keeps spinning in my head, a weight pressing down on my chest. I know I can’t keep it without Peeta, but I don’t know how to talk to him. He saved me years ago, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him now. I know he won’t try to kill me, not unless he wants to die himself, but that’s all I know. Where does that leave me?

“Katniss, I—” Peeta turns toward me, his blue eyes searching for something in mine, but whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. I don’t push. I wouldn’t even know what to ask.

Before either of us can try again, the door slides open, and the most infamous drunk in District Twelve stumbles in. Haymitch Abernathy. His glass is filled to the brim with whiskey, sloshing over the rim as he raises it in a mock toast.

“Congratulations,” he says, his voice slurred. “You two are the lucky tributes.” He stumbles closer, unbothered by the liquor spilling onto the floor, and makes a beeline for the bar. I don’t know how I missed it before, considering the sheer amount of food spread across the counter. Haymitch refills his glass with more amber liquid, his hand only slightly steadier now that he has a target.

Peeta clears his throat. “So… what do we do now?”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, as if the question itself is absurd. “You’re our mentor, right? You won the last Quarter Quell. You must know something that can help us.”

I glance at Peeta, surprised by his use of the word ‘us.’ I guess, technically, we are a team. Whether I like it or not.

Haymitch snorts into his drink. “Here’s some advice: stay alive.” He laughs, long and loud, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. The sound grates against my nerves, and I scowl at him. He notices but doesn’t seem to care.

“If you’re not going to help us, why are you even here?” My voice is steady for the first time today, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Haymitch waves his glass in the air, nearly spilling its contents again. “The refreshments are pretty good.”

Before I even register what’s happening, Peeta knocks the glass from his hand, sending it shattering to the floor. Haymitch doesn’t hesitate as his fist flies out, connecting with Peeta’s jaw and sending him stumbling back, blood dripping from his lip. My body reacts before my mind catches up. The knife from the table is suddenly in my hand, sailing through the air and embedding itself in the wall, nicking a piece of Haymitch’s hair in the process.

He blinks at the knife, then turns back to us, more amused than angry. “A couple of fighters this year, huh?” He refills his glass again, unfazed. “Alright. How about this: I’ll stay sober enough to help you, and in return, you do exactly as I say. No buts, no nothing.”

It’s the best offer we’re going to get. I glance at Peeta, who’s still holding his jaw, and nod.

“Fine.”

-*-

After conversation in the dining car, I make a beeline for my room. The golden plate on the door, reading Female Tribute, D12, makes my stomach churn. It clenches uncomfortably when I collapse onto the too-soft, too-clean, and far-too-big bed.

Sweat beads at my temples. The blood drains from my face, leaving me cold and clammy. Then comes the familiar pooling of saliva in my mouth. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m emptying the contents of my stomach into the pristine porcelain bowl.

I don’t know how much time passes before I’m done, but exhaustion doesn’t even begin to describe the way my body feels. One might think the nausea would offer a distraction, but my mind refuses to quiet. Crystal-blue, sad eyes swirl behind my eyelids. Peeta. A debt he never collected, hanging over me like a shadow. He gave me life. And now I’m supposed to fight twenty-two other tributes for ours.

I’m terrified.

I’ve watched the Games my whole life, clinging to the fragile hope that I’d never be chosen. Gale is right, I can hunt, and I know how to survive. But every year, Districts One and Two send eager volunteers, trained from birth to win. How am I supposed to survive against them?

The only solid thought I can hold onto is Prim. My promise to her is the only thing that matters. Peeta, the Games, the Capitol, none of it compares to that. I’ll do anything to keep that promise.

Effie collects me just as the sun dips below the horizon. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I see the obscene spread laid out before us. It’s more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. I try to calculate how long it would take me to hunt and gather something even remotely close. When we get to the second course, I give up. There’s no way. We don’t even have oranges in District Twelve.

“It’s so refreshing seeing you two eat with cutlery.” Effie beams, gesturing dramatically with her hand. “Last year’s tributes ate with their hands.” She scrunches her nose in disgust, and something hot and angry twists inside me.

I know who she’s talking about. The girl from the Seam who stepped off the platform too early, choosing a quicker death over playing the Capitol’s game. The boy didn’t last much longer. He was killed by a knife to the chest trying to grab an orange backpack. Effie speaks about them like they’re animals. Like they never mattered.

I hold her gaze and deliberately pick up a piece of food with my fingers. I eat the rest of my meal that way, savoring the way her face goes pale. Peeta catches on and does the same. When he finishes, he licks his plate clean. Effie looks horrified but doesn’t say a word. Maybe she’s afraid. Maybe I look insane.

I glance at Peeta. He’s from the merchant side of town. While I know firsthand he’s capable of kindness, it’s common knowledge that the merchants don’t starve the way we do. He’s probably always known what it’s like to have food on the table. So why would he risk angering Effie over a couple of Seam kids? The question gnaws at me.

By the time dessert is served, Haymitch stumbles in, looking a little more sober and smelling slightly less like liquor. He insists we eat in front of the recap of the Reapings. When I frown, he raises his eyebrows in challenge, daring me to argue. I bite my tongue. He seems satisfied, and the smug look on his face makes my teeth grind.

“This year is different,” Haymitch says as we settle onto the couch. His voice is clearer now, almost steady. My dessert sits untouched on the coffee table, my stomach churning.

“You two,” he says, pointing between Peeta and me, “your lives depend on each other. If one of you dies, the other is ‘eliminated.’” The way he says eliminated makes my stomach turn. “If you win, you both go home.”

My heart stutters. I glance at Peeta, but when our eyes meet, I quickly look away.

“Don’t mistake that rule for graciousness from the Capitol,” Haymitch continues. “It’s usually impossible to win alone. Do the math on how much harder it is for two of you to stay alive until the end.”

I swallow thickly.

“Is this your motivational speech?” I ask dryly.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. “This is reality, sweetheart.” He gestures toward the screen. “Fortunately for you, the same rules apply to everyone.”

The screen flickers to life, playing the Reapings from each district. I watch in silence as the eager volunteers from One and Two take the stage. The tributes from District One are a lethal-looking blond pair. Tall, beautiful, and deadly. District Two offers a massive girl, all muscle and menace, alongside a slightly smaller but no less terrifying boy. My heart sinks.

“The Careers.” Haymitch’s voice is low, almost bored. “Dangerous. Trained. Used to working as a team.”

I keep my face blank, refusing to show fear, but I know my eyes would betray me if anyone looked closely.

The tributes from Three are as expected, thin, clever, with sharp, calculating eyes. Four, sometimes Careers, sometimes not, has one volunteer. The girl, with her red shoulder-length hair and decisive gaze, looks dangerous, but she doesn’t hold the same weight of certainty as One and Two. The boy will probably be her downfall. In a regular year, she might have stood a chance. The thirteen-year-old boy by her side does not, and so neither does she.

The tributes from Five, Six, and Eight blur past me, their faces already fading from memory. Nine catches my attention for a moment. Two sixteen-year-olds, somewhat healthy-looking, with fear practically radiating from their eyes. They won’t last long. Ten barely registers.

Then Eleven.

The memory hits me before the screen does. The little girl from last year, her small body crumpling to the ground, a spear sticking out of her stomach. Rue. I swallow hard and force myself to watch, silently pleading for older tributes this time. When they’re picked, I get my wish and immediately regret it.

A giant of a boy steps forward, hulking and dangerous, followed by a tall, slender girl with wild hair and wary eyes. My stomach clenches. There are more dangerous tributes this year than usual. Fuck.

And then, our own Reaping.

I barely manage to keep breathing as Prim’s name echoes through the square. My desperate shout to take her place. Peeta’s silent acceptance. The screen flickers with Ceasar Flickerman’s gleaming smile as he gushes over the rare volunteer from an outlying district, and the odds for District Twelve. Odds. If I had to guess, ours are close to zero.

When the footage ends, silence settles over the room like a suffocating blanket. No one moves. No one speaks. The only sound is the soft hum of the train gliding along its tracks.

Peeta is the first to break it. His voice is quiet but steady. “So… what now?”

Haymitch stares at the black screen for a long moment before shifting his gaze back to us. His eyes are clearer than before, the alcohol dulling him slightly less. He exhales slowly, rubbing his face.

“Now?” He pushes himself up from the couch, swaying slightly. “Now you go get your beauty sleep…” He gestures vaguely toward the hallway, already making his way toward the bar. “And let me come up with a plan.”

I don’t know what terrifies me more, the fact that we’re depending on him, or the fact that I have no other choice.

Chapter Text

Even though the train’s motion is barely noticeable, it rocked me to sleep last night. Or maybe it was just the idea of it. I don’t know how I managed to sleep at all, but exhaustion must have dragged me under at some point. Effie’s obnoxious knuckles rapping against my door woke me far too early, her shrill voice chirping about it being a “big, big, big day!” I probably took longer than necessary getting ready just to spite her.

“Look who finally decided to join us.” Haymitch’s snarky greeting does little to improve my already sour mood.

Outside the window, the landscape has changed. The trees have been replaced by rocky mountains, unfamiliar and cold. I shift in my seat, unsettled. I’m a long way from home and from the safety of my woods. Something uncomfortable settles in the pit of my stomach.

“Needed my beauty sleep, right?” I mutter, grabbing a roll of bread and a cup of something hot and brown that smells faintly like chocolate. Across the table, Peeta catches my eye. He offers a soft smile, and I realize too late that my scowl probably wasn’t the right response. Before I can think of how to fix it, Haymitch speaks again.

“Look.” He waves his knife between me and Peeta, the blade catching the light. “These Games aren’t just about killing your way through the arena. It’s a reality show for them. And that show can mean the difference between life and death. If you put on a good show, you get sponsors. Sponsors mean water, food, medicine. Survival.” He leans back, gesturing at me with the knife. “That stone of a personality you’ve got going on, sweetheart? Not gonna do you any favors.”

I bristle. “Is that how you won? By being likable?” The sarcasm is sharp enough to cut, but Haymitch only smirks.

“You’ll find I’m actually quite enjoyable once you get to know me.”

I roll my eyes and look out the window. The train slips into darkness, a long tunnel swallowing the light. When we finally emerge, I blink against the sudden brightness.

And there it is.

The Capitol.

It rises from the mountains like a gleaming jewel, tall and proud and terrible. Proud and standing on the shoulders of oppression. The buildings are sleek and polished, blinding in the sunlight. The train glides past crowds of people dressed just as garishly as Effie, their painted faces twisted in excitement. They scream and wave at the train, the sound piercing even through the thick glass.

Peeta stands and waves back. The crowd goes wild. I stare at him, confused, until Haymitch snorts.

“Be glad that one’s your ally.”

Ally.

I glance at Peeta again. His arm flexes under his shirt as he waves, the muscle shifting easily. He’s strong. I’ve seen him throw sacks of flour like they weigh nothing. Having him as an ally is better than some scrawny Seam kid who hasn’t eaten properly in years. I hate that my mind even goes in that direction.

Ally. Another word for the boy with the bread. Another reminder that I don’t really know him. He’s not my friend. But he has to be my ally because without him, I’ll die. Or worse, he’ll die because of me.

Before I can think about it any further, the train doors hiss open. I’m shoved outside into blinding light and deafening noise. For a moment, I lose myself in the chaos, my senses overwhelmed.

“Katniss.” Peeta’s voice is soft beside me. I turn to him, and whatever he sees on my face makes his brow furrow with concern. “I think we’re supposed to go.”

I nod. We’re headed to the Training Center, the place we’ll stay until the Games begin. Until the countdown hits zero. I shudder.

“You do everything your stylists tell you to,” Haymitch says as we’re led down a long, gleaming hallway. “You’re not gonna like it, but you don’t protest.”

“What—?” I start, but he cuts me off.

“No protests, sweetheart.” His tone is final.

He was right. I don’t like it.

They pluck me like a bird, scrubbing until my skin feels raw. Creams and lotions are smeared over every inch of me. My hair is trimmed and falls softly around my face. My nails are cleaned and polished until they gleam. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.

And then my stylist enters.

He’s nothing like I expected. No garish colors. No painted face. He’s dressed entirely in black, sleek and simple. The only thing that hints at Capitol flair is a thin line of gold eyeliner. When he speaks, his accent is so subtle I barely notice it.

“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna.” His voice is calm, steady. It soothes me in a way I can’t explain. He takes my hands in his, studying me. Not like I’m a pawn. Not like I’m prey. He looks at me as if I’m strong. Stronger than I feel.

“That was a very brave thing you did for your sister.”

I stare down at our joined hands. “Most just tell me I’m lucky.”

Cinna tilts his head, thoughtful. “Well, I don’t really see the point in that.”

I blink at him, surprised, and a small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Maybe not everyone in the Capitol is crazy.

“So… you’re here to make me a spectacle?” The question comes out cautiously.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m here to make sure you stand out. But I want you to be comfortable.”

He orders food and hands me a plate. I hesitate, then take it, my stomach growling at the first bite.

“I have an idea,” Cinna says, watching me closely. “I think you’ll like it.”

I swallow, suddenly nervous. “What kind of idea?”

Cinna leans forward, his gaze steady. “Do you trust me?”

I don’t know why — maybe because he’s the first normal person I’ve met since I got here — but I find myself nodding.

“Yes.”

And for the first time since the Reaping, I feel like maybe I won’t have to face this without someone rooting for me.

-*-

“Excuse me, what?” I almost shout. It’s clear now that my initial impression of Cinna was completely wrong because no sane person would suggest setting someone on fire.

“It’s not real fire, Katniss. You won’t feel it, I promise.” His voice is calm, reassuring, but I stare at him incredulously and shake my head. Across the room, Peeta seems to be in a similar situation with his stylist, Portia.

“Look.” Cinna takes my arms, his grip steady but gentle. “The fabric of your jumpsuit creates an illusion of fire. There’s no real flame.”

Before I can protest, a loud horn blares, signaling that it’s time for us to step onto our chariot. The words die on my lips. Maybe it’s better to burn here than in the arena anyway.

As the chariot lurches forward, the close proximity to Peeta makes me queasy. I have to remind myself over and over that he won’t hurt me. There’s nothing in it for him. But I can’t shake the uneasiness of being pressed this close, his warmth radiating against my side. When I hug Prim, it’s comforting. When I sit close to Gale in the woods, it feels safe. Standing next to Peeta now is nerve-racking. Or maybe that’s the crowd — thousands of screaming Capitol citizens waiting just outside the tunnel we’re about to leave.

“Rip off my cape and I’ll rip off yours?” Peeta says softly. It sounds like a joke, but when I meet his gaze, there’s real concern there. For me or himself, I’m not sure. Ally. I nod.

“Sure.” Should I say something else? I don’t have time to wonder.

Suddenly, we’re out of the tunnel and into the blinding lights. The crowd erupts, deafening, as if the citizens are spilling off the grandstands and flooding the streets. From my view, they look like millions of colorful ants.

Then I feel it, a tickle at my back. I glance at the nearest screen and nearly stumble. Flames. My entire body is engulfed in them. The effect is dangerous and dramatic, shadows flickering across my face. Beside me, Peeta looks just as fierce. The fire licks along the contours of his golden hair, creating the illusion of a crown. A victor’s crown. As if we’ve already won.

Peeta takes my hand. I whip my head toward him, startled, but his grip is steady. “Do you trust me?” Ally echoes in my head. I don’t, not really. But I nod anyway. I don’t have a choice. He raises our joined hands into the air, and the crowd loses its mind. Every screen displays our burning figures, towering over the square.

Then, as suddenly as it began, our image vanishes. Replaced by President Snow’s face. The shift is jarring. One moment we’re icons of defiance, pieces of coal burning fiercely, the next we’re overshadowed by the man who controls it all. I never want to see my face next to his again.

“Tributes, welcome.” His voice slithers through the square. His gaze lingers a second longer on Peeta and me, cold and calculating. “Welcome to the 75th Hunger Games. This year is the third Quarter Quell, and the Capitol, along with all of Panem, is eager to receive you.” I shudder.

“Two of you will be crowned joint Victors, and the rest of you will be remembered and honored as fallen tributes. The Capitol thanks you for your sacrifice.”

The crowd roars its approval.

“May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The cheering grows louder, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart.

-*-

“Since you’re from Twelve, you get the penthouse,” Effie says excitedly as we step out of the elevator onto the highest floor. If I thought the train was excessive, I don’t even know what word to use for this apartment. The penthouse could easily fit a hundred people.

Effie glides ahead, giving us a grand tour like she did on the train. When she shows me my room, I take the opportunity to slip away for a moment. Just one moment to myself and yet it’s probably too much to ask.

I stand in the shower, letting it do everything for me. The water scrubs, washes, and dries me without me lifting a finger. My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, perfectly arranged. For a moment, I imagine growing up here. Would I enjoy the Games too if I’d been raised in luxury and excess? If I had never known hunger, despair, or desperation?

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the girl in front of me. She looks like me, but she doesn’t. My hair is too soft, my skin too clean. Even the shadows under my eyes seem lighter. I don’t even have the energy to braid my hair.

Effie collects me for dinner a while later. The closet is overwhelming. Massive, confusing, and filled with clothes I can’t imagine wearing. I settle on the most normal thing I can find: a green satin blouse and black slacks.

Dinner is surprisingly uneventful. Haymitch is more sober than usual, and Effie is less shrill. The air around the table hums with excitement from our success at the tribute parade. Peeta and I don’t speak much, but I catch him staring at me a few times. Each time our eyes meet, he blushes and looks away. It’s… odd.

Haymitch mentions the roof and says we’re allowed to use it if we want. After dinner, when everyone else heads to bed, I find myself in the elevator, pressing the “R” button. Just as the doors close, Haymitch slips in beside me. I raise an eyebrow, but he gives a subtle shake of his head and points upward. Not yet.

“It’s windy up here. Too much noise for the cameras,” he explains when we step onto the roof. It’s enough. The Capitol listens, but not here. I nod as if I understand.

“You and Peeta need to be working as a team,” Haymitch says after a long silence.

“Why are you only telling me this?” I ask, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice. He gives me a look that makes me feel foolish.

“That boy is already doing the job for both of you.”

I scoff, but I know he’s right. Peeta raising our hands at the parade was genius.

“Listen,” Haymitch continues, his tone heavier now. “These Games aren’t like anything we’ve seen before. The rules are different. The arena will be more dangerous — it’s a Quarter Quell, after all — and they’re going to present everything you do as a team. Your scores will be added together. Your interviews will be together. And they’ll give you trackers that won’t let you go more than seven feet from each other.”

My hands start shaking. “So what do I do?”

“Act like he’s your ally. Because he is. Trust him to save your life as much as he has to trust you to save his.”

My mind drifts to Peeta. He’s already saved me once. That’s one more time than I’ve saved him. How can I struggle to trust him when I have every reason to, and he has none? It feels hypocritical. Yet I can’t shake the uneasiness.

“And if I can’t?” My voice is quieter than I intend. “Trust him, I mean.”

Haymitch looks at me, his expression dark. “Then I hope you gave that sister of yours a proper goodbye.”

Chapter Text

Sleep never comes that night. I replay my conversation with Haymitch over and over in my head, but by the time the sun rises, I’m no closer to clarity.

At breakfast, my head throbs from lack of sleep, and my sullen mood is obvious to everyone. No one comments on it, though and for that, I’m grateful.

“When you’re down there training today, keep your skills to yourself. Don’t show them anything they can use against you.” Haymitch’s voice breaks the silence. His gaze lands on me. “That means no shooting with a bow.” Then he turns to Peeta, frowning slightly. “And you… what can you do?”

It hits me then that Haymitch knows nothing about Peeta. How he knew about my archery, I’m not sure. Maybe my black market dealings aren’t as discreet as I thought.

“Nothing,” Peeta mumbles. The quiet defeat in his voice unsettles me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I speak.

“Peeta’s strong,” I say, a little too quickly. “He throws hundred-pound sacks of flour over his head like they weigh nothing. And he wrestles.”

The room goes quiet. Haymitch raises his eyebrows in that smug way of his that makes me want to throw something. My gaze drifts to Peeta. He’s staring at me, his brows drawn together, like he’s trying to figure me out. Trying to understand what I’m doing, why I’m defending him.

Haymitch breaks the tension. “Then you stay away from anything that shows off your strength. Stick together.”

I swirl my spoon in the hot chocolate, avoiding Peeta’s gaze. The liquid suddenly becomes the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t know why I spoke up about Peeta’s abilities like that. He’s supposed to be my ally, but I don’t understand why he would lie about what he can do. Haymitch wants me to trust him, but how can I when he knows what I’m capable of but refuses to share his strengths? Maybe he thinks hiding them will help us. Or maybe he doesn’t trust me either. I guess he has no reason to.

The elevator ride to the training facility is long and painfully quiet. By the time we pass floor seven, I can’t take it anymore.

“Why would you hide your abilities?” I ask, harsher than I intended. Peeta looks at me, eyes full with confusion.

“Katniss, I don’t have anything that’s useful in the Games.”

My scowl deepens. I open my mouth to argue, but Peeta isn’t done.

“Yeah, I can bake bread for hours on end, but how is that going to help us? You can shoot and never miss. Right through the eye every time. If we win, it’s not going to be because of me.”

His voice isn’t sad or defeated, it’s steady and factual. He doesn’t look away once. I don’t miss his use of the word us. Peeta is better at this than me. He’s already accepted the rules of the Quarter Quell.

I drop my gaze, staring at the floor. We pass level three before I speak again.

“It’s not always through the eye,” I mutter.

Peeta snorts. “It’s always through the eye.”

I don’t argue this time.

The elevator doors slide open, and we’re the last ones to arrive. Again. How every other district has an escort more punctual than Effie is beyond me. She makes us arrive twenty minutes early to everything.

Peeta and I stand at the back of the group, silently absorbing the instructor’s words. There’s nothing I don’t already know, but I listen anyway. I don’t want to die of starvation, hypothermia, or infection. I don’t want to die at all. The thought hits me like a brick. Of course I don’t want to die, but only now do I realize just how much. I don’t want to be decapitated by Mason from District Two, who’s swinging a sword at a dummy like he’s slicing through butter. I don’t want to be gutted by Opal from One, whose knife work is so precise it makes me shiver.

“Trying to kill the competition with your glare?” Peeta’s voice breaks my trance.

I shoot him a deadpan look, but he just snickers. How he can be this relaxed is beyond me.

“Knot-tying station?” I suggest, already walking in that direction. Peeta follows.

“Sure.”

We spend the morning learning different knots and traps. Gale tried to teach me a few more complicated snares once, but I never had the patience. I still don’t, but Peeta seems genuinely interested. He’s the same at the fire-making station and the plant identification station. I don’t know whether that annoys me or makes me oddly satisfied.

At lunch, I force him to swap out his bread and potatoes for greens and chicken, just like the Careers. He looks mildly amused but eats it all the same. We stick together, just like Haymitch told us. I avoid the archery station, even though my fingers itch to test the new bows. One in particular gleams mockingly from across the room. Peeta avoids showing his strength, playing the part well. During the mandatory hand-to-hand combat hour, he even goes so far as to pretend to be terrible. I know he’s faking. I’ve seen him wrestle at school, he could’ve thrown the instructor to the ground without breaking a sweat.

As we head toward the elevator, I lean closer. “Why did you do that?” I whisper.

“What?”

“Pretend to be bad back there.”

Peeta gives me an odd look. “How do you know that wasn’t my best?” He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

I scoff. “I’ve seen you wrestle at school. You had him if you wanted to.”

Peeta shrugs as he presses the button for the penthouse. A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips.

“Can’t hurt to throw off the competition, right?”

-*-

Peeta is smart. I know that’s a good thing considering our situation, but I can’t help feeling uneasy about it. It unsettles me to know he isn’t clueless — that every move he makes is probably calculated, each action quietly evaluated. It’s so different from me, with my reckless decisions and dead-fish personality.

I lie in bed, body sore and heavy with exhaustion. My eyes trace the ceiling. There’s a projection of trees swaying softly in the wind, and for a moment, it feels like home. My chest tightens. Prim. My mother. Gale. Lady, Prim’s goat. Even that stupid cat Buttercup I’d happily make into soup if given half the chance. I miss them all. My heart aches so fiercely it feels like a physical wound. I’d scream for mercy if I thought anyone would hear. If I thought there was anyone — or anything — that could give me just one more moment with my family. One more day at home. I’d take the hunger, the cold, the fear. All of it. Just for that.

A soft knock pulls me back. Peeta’s voice follows, quiet and uncertain.

“Katniss?”

I answer without thinking. The door creaks open, and I swipe at my tears, but not fast enough. His eyes catch mine, and I know he sees. Fury rises in me; not at him, but at myself. I’ve let him glimpse something I never meant to show.

He stands just inside the door, close enough that I can make out each faint freckle scattered across his skin. Yet far enough that the space between us feels insurmountable. Time stretches. In this fragile moment, we’re caught in a silent understanding neither of us dares to break.

The concern in his eyes is unbearable. I turn away.

“What do you want, Peeta?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. I wince.

He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Maybe he knows better. I’m not sure if I’d cry again or throw something at him.

“Effie sent me to get you for dinner. Haymitch wants to talk to us too.”

“Okay.”

I don’t say anything else. After a few seconds, he leaves. The door clicks softly shut behind him.

I press my fist to my mouth and scream silently into the dark. One last indulgence. One last desperate grasp at what I’ve lost before I shove it all down deep enough that it can never surface again.

Only one thought remains. The promise I made to Prim. That’s the only thing that matters now.

-*-

Peeta keeps sending me concerned glances throughout dinner, which only irritates me more. I avoid his gaze, stabbing my food while he answers Haymitch’s questions about training. When Peeta mentions the hand-to-hand combat and how he held back, Haymitch nods approvingly. My hands curl into fists under the table, knuckles white, but I keep my mouth shut.

The rest of the training days pass in the same pattern: blend in, avoid attention, learn survival skills. Do nothing remarkable. By the time the score evaluations arrive, my nerves are frayed. Each tribute goes in alone, showing their skills while the Gamemakers watch. Peeta and I – and every district team– will get a combined score, which somehow feels even more nerve-wracking.

The waiting room empties one by one until it’s just the two of us. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant sound of someone’s name being called. Peeta shifts beside me.

“Shoot straight,” he says softly, a half-smile on his face.

I nod. “Good luck.” The words feel empty.

The training room is colder than I remember. Or maybe it’s just me. The Gamemakers are gathered above, sipping drinks and chatting among themselves. None of them look at me as I enter. I clear my throat.

“Katniss Everdeen. District Twelve.”

A few glance down, bored. One with a villainous-looking swirl of a beard waves lazily. “Go ahead.”

I cross the floor and pick up the bow. It feels wrong in my hands — too light, too smooth. I draw back the string, testing the tension, and take aim. My first arrow flies wide, missing the target completely. My heart lurches. I’ve not missed a target in years. Laughter drifts down from above, sharp and mocking. My face burns. I draw another arrow, steady my breath, and fire again. Bullseye. But when I glance up, no one’s watching. Of course they’re not. I’m a nobody from an outlying district with no real chance of winning. I was sent here just to die and not even my death is worthy of attention. The roasted pig in the Gamemaker’s lounge is more noteworthy than the girl about to die in their arena. 

The rage hits me like a spark to dry tinder. Before I can think, I nock another arrow and let it fly. The apple explodes, the arrow embedding deep in the wall behind it. The room falls silent. Every head turns toward me, mouths hanging open.

I force my shaking hands to my sides. “Thank you for your consideration.” I drop into a mocking bow and stride out before the panic can take hold.

Only when I’m back in the elevator do I fully realize what I’ve done. My legs feel like lead, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe. As soon as the doors open, I storm past Haymitch and Effie, ignoring their questions. I go straight to my room and crumble onto the bed, clutching the sheets as the panic sets in.

Not only did I screw up my own score, I’ve ruined Peeta’s chances too. And somehow, that thought is even worse.

By the time we gather to watch the scores, my stomach is a tangled knot of dread. I can’t meet Peeta’s eyes. He’s avoiding mine as well. The Capitol anthem blares, signaling the start of the broadcast.

“What did you do?” Haymitch’s voice is low, suspicious. He knows. Of course, he knows. I glance at him, then down at my hands.

“I… I shot the apple out of their pig’s mouth.” My voice is barely a whisper. The room falls silent. Slowly, I risk a glance at Peeta.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, fast and desperate. “I didn’t think. I messed up. I messed everything up for you.”

The last thing I expect is for Haymitch to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Peeta’s lips quirk into an amused smile, and I stare at them both as if they’ve lost their minds.

“I guess that explains their frightened stares during my evaluation,” Peeta says, and Haymitch doubles over, laughing even harder.

I manage a weak smile, though my heart is still racing. Haymitch wipes his eyes, shaking his head. “Well, sweetheart, they’ll definitely remember you now.”

That makes me feel a little better. At least I won’t be forgotten, even if they give me a zero. Peeta’s score might still be decent. Maybe, combined, we’ll end up somewhere in the middle.

The TV flickers to life, and there’s Caesar Flickerman,  all smiles and in full lavender glory. The scores roll out, district by district. One gets a combined nineteen: nine for the boy, ten for Opal. Two is even better: both tens, a perfect twenty. My palms grow sweatier with each number. Four gets a fourteen, Five through Seven get elevens, Eight gets a nine. District Nine’s fifteen isn’t terrible but isn’t great either. Eleven scores seventeen, and the pit in my stomach deepens. Older tributes. Stronger ones. I really doomed myself with that wish.

Then Caesar turns to District Twelve. My breath catches.

Please let Peeta have scored well. Please don’t let us be last.

Cheers erupt from the screen, and I look up – only to have the wind knocked out of me. My jaw drops. There, in bold numbers, is our score.

Twenty-one. The highest of all the districts.

I got an eleven. Peeta, a ten.

I stare at the screen, frozen. Peeta lets out a low whistle, and Haymitch claps his hands together, grinning. I turn to Peeta, eyes wide.

“You got a ten.” The words barely make it past my lips.

Peeta shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but I catch the pleased glint in his eyes. “Guess they liked my performance.”

I can only sit there, stunned, as the scores flash one final time. Twenty-one. Somehow, despite everything, we’re the ones to beat.

Chapter Text

If it wasn’t painfully obvious before, it becomes crystal clear during interview prep that I have the personality of a slug. Haymitch never misses an opportunity to remind me. He insists on coaching us separately because, in his words, “I can’t rely on Peeta to carry the whole interview.”

I thought that was the point of being a team. Him doing what he’s good at, and me doing what I’m good at. Unfortunately, my skill set doesn’t include charming an audience.

“For god’s sake, Katniss!” Haymitch throws his notebook across the room. “You sound like you’re being forced.”

“Well, I am!” I snap, throwing my hands in the air. How is this not obvious?

Haymitch leans in, his breath faintly smelling of whiskey. Small mercies, I guess. “No, you’re not. You volunteered.” His tone is flat, deadly serious.

My anger flares. “Because of Prim! I couldn’t let her die here. Don’t you understand that?”

“I do.” He gestures out the window toward the Capitol. “But they don’t. You refuse to talk about her, or your family, or anyone. How are people supposed to connect with you if you won’t give them anything?”

I cross my arms, glaring at the floor. “I don’t want to tell them about anything I care about.” Why should I? They’re the reason I’m here in the first place.

Haymitch sighs, rubbing his face. “Well, sweetheart, you need to talk about something.”

I huff, kicking at the chair leg. “Why isn’t Peeta here?” It’s not the first time I’ve asked, but the answer still doesn’t make sense.

Haymitch mutters a string of curses under his breath. Some are new to me. I file them away for later use, probably after I humiliate myself in front of the entire country.

“The interview isn’t scripted,” he says finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Peeta’s a natural. He’ll do fine no matter what they throw at him. But you need to learn some very basic skills of courtesy.”

Bastard.

Effie isn’t much better. By the end of our session, I still can’t walk in heels without tripping over myself. I still sound like a half-dead robot when I talk, and every attempt at a smile looks like the grimace you’d use to terrify small children.

I’m doomed. My only saving grace is probably Peeta talking through the entirety of our interview.

I tell Cinna as much while he dresses me. His eyes shine with quiet sympathy, and I’m once again thankful to have someone in my corner. Someone who doesn’t call me useless for failing to crack a joke or make me feel like an idiot for tripping over ten-inch stilettos.

“I don’t think you’re rude,” Cinna says softly, pinning the last piece of fabric into place.

I scoff. “That’s different.” I meet his gaze in the mirror. “You’re my friend.”

He smiles, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Then pretend you’re talking to me.”

I blink, caught off guard. His green eyes shine with nothing but kindness and worry — just like they always have. Since the moment I met him, he’s been nothing but steady. No hidden agenda. No Capitol theatrics. Just quiet compassion. His genuine concern and willingness to listen to my endless complaints make me feel… safe. It’s not something I ever expected from a Capitolite.

“Okay.” I nod, like I’m making a promise. I can probably do that.

“Good.” His smile deepens, a flicker of mischief dancing behind his eyes. “Now, I didn’t want to abandon the flames entirely tonight.”

I shoot him a mock glare. He swats it away with a chuckle.

“When the moment feels right,” he says, stepping back to admire his work, “I want you to spin.”

–*–

I meet Peeta in the greenroom, where nearly every tribute has already gathered. The Careers, unsurprisingly, are laughing together by the food tables, casual and confident, like they’re at a party. Most of the others stand huddled with their district partners, silent and wide-eyed. Definitely not laughing.

“How did your sessions go?” Peeta asks as I drop into the seat beside him.

I glance around, noticing the stares. Almost every tribute is looking at us, or more specifically at me, with a strange mixture of wonder and unease. Opal from One is the worst, her glare sharp enough to slice flesh. I meet her gaze, expressionless, until she finally looks away.

“Bad,” I mutter, before realizing I should probably ask him too. I curse internally. I am really bad at this. “How did yours go?”

Peeta hesitates, his usual calm replaced by something else. Nerves? “Good. Our interview will go great.”

The way he says it does nothing to ease my anxiety. Before I can ask what he means, Opal and her gang of killing machines pass by.

“I thought Twelve had stopped blowing off the Gamemakers to get good scores,” Opal sneers. “Guess old habits die hard.”

My eyes narrow, and I’m about to fire back with one of Haymitch’s more colorful curse words when Peeta’s hand brushes my arm, grounding me.

“They’re not worth it,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. Goosebumps rise along my skin, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s from anger or… something else.

I step away, crossing my arms. “We have red targets on our backs.”

“We’ve had that since the reaping,” he replies quietly. “This just adds a few more people who want us dead.”

I stare at him, shocked by the rebellious edge in his voice. I quickly glance around to make sure no one overheard, but Peeta doesn’t even look concerned. He’s watching me.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

I freeze. It’s the same thing he said during the tribute parade, but now, without the roar of the crowd to drown out my doubts, I can’t hide the hesitation in my eyes.

“I just need you to trust me for this part,” he says softly. “For now. Just for the interview.”

There’s a quiet desperation in his voice that unsettles me more than anything else. What has he planned that makes him this anxious? But Peeta is a thousand times better at this than I am, and if I don’t trust him, I’ll be ensuring this interview is a complete disaster.

I swallow hard, forcing down my unease, and nod. “Okay.”

Whatever Peeta sees in my eyes seems to satisfy him. He gives a small, almost relieved smile. Why is he so nervous? He seemed so calm and steady at the tribute parade and that wasn’t much better than I think this will be. 

The line starts moving, and my heart pounds so hard it feels like it might shake the ground beneath me. I swallow against the rising panic. Too late to back out now.

Opal and her blonde teammate step onto the stage, and it’s clear they’re playing up the sexy-but-deadly angle. That was the first approach both Effie and Haymitch tried with me. And also the one I was the absolute worst at.

Ceasar doesn’t even have to work to make them shine. They’re practically running the interview themselves—laughing at his bad jokes, gushing over the Capitol’s fashion trends, complimenting the abundance of gemstones like they aren’t the most expensive thing in the room. Then, with a well-practiced wink, Opal slides in the real message: they are the Capitol’s most valuable gems. Not even subtle.

I glance at Peeta. He’s watching the screen intently, expression unreadable. I find the whole thing mildly amusing at best.

Then come the tributes from District Two. Vicious, brutal, terrifying. The Capitol eats it up. I roll my eyes. How has no one gotten tired of this yet? The ruthless Career act is as predictable as the Games themselves. Yes, Mason is terrifying. Yes, I’d rather face a pack of mutts than him in the arena. But isn’t there anything else to them? Any dimension beyond their ability to kill?

District Four’s interview is just painful to watch. The red-haired girl with lethal features is trying her best, but her district partner—meek, shaky—keeps dragging them down. They aren’t real contenders, and everyone knows it.

District Five is sneakier. Their tributes lean into the underdog angle, but there’s a sharpness to them, an unspoken understanding between the two. Clever. Dangerous in a different way.

The line inches forward, faster than I’d like.

Too fast.

My stomach twists.

Before I fully register what’s happening, the tributes from District Eleven are stepping onto the stage, leaving just me and Peeta alone backstage. The room falls eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chatter from moments ago.

On the screen, Caesar Flickerman’s voice booms with his usual charm.

“How do you feel? Are you excited?” His question echoes across the silent set.

Fred, the male tribute, doesn’t answer right away. He just shrugs, his massive frame doing all the talking for him. He hasn’t said much of anything during his interview—just a handful of clipped yes and no answers.

The girl, Sheila, picks up the slack. “I think it’s an exciting prospect that we might both go home,” she says, her voice smooth and confident.

“Ah, yes! The twist of the century!” Caesar’s excitement is palpable as he turns to the audience, drawing them into the moment before looking back at the tributes. “You’ll definitely have to fight for it. The competition is tough this year.”

Fred scoffs. “It’s not worse than any other year. We’ll be fine.”

Arrogant. Not what I expected. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Then, Caesar throws an unexpected curveball. “Not even the District Twelve team? They did get a very impressive score, after all.”

At the mention of our names, I instinctively straighten. I don’t really understand why we’re being dragged into their interview, but I suppose it’s all part of the spectacle. Pit us against each other. Stir up tension. Make it a good show.

Fred doesn’t hesitate. “A good score in a controlled environment says nothing about their ability to fight or survive,” he says dismissively. “Meanwhile, Sheila and I are used to working long hours in the sun. We have stamina. We can go days without food if we have to. We’re the ones to bet on, not asthmatic kids from Twelve.”

Peeta lets out a soft chuckle beside me. “Ouch.” His voice is amused.

I turn to him, incredulous. “You do realize they’re humiliating us on live television, right?”

“Yeah. Part of the game, isn’t it?” He shrugs. “Besides, I have a plan.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you plan on including me in it?”

He meets my gaze, unreadable for a long moment. Then, finally, he gives me a small, reassuring smile. Or at least, it’s meant to be reassuring.

“You’ll just have to trust me on this, remember?”

I groan internally.

We’re next, and I’m not ready when they usher us onto the stage.

Lights. Blinding bursts of color. Screaming. So much screaming.

The voices around me blur into static, my mind distracted by the glimmering dresses and exaggerated suits of the audience members. I catch flashes of painted lips, powdered cheeks, and garish jewels.

Then—

“Katniss, are we boring you?”

Caesar Flickerman’s teasing voice slices through my trance, and I’m suddenly aware of where I actually am.

“What?” I blurt out, my brain scrambling. I haven’t heard a single word that’s been said.

The audience laughs, and I force a smile, probably looking like a terrified rabbit.

Caesar chuckles along with them, turning my obliviousness into a joke. “I see someone isn’t paying attention.” He gestures toward me with mock exasperation. My face burns. Peeta chuckles, playing along.

“I think she’s just nervous,” he says, grinning. “We both are. We’ve never been in front of so many beautiful people before.”

Caesar beams. “Is that how you feel too, Katniss?” His voice is coaxing, guiding me into the conversation.

I hesitate. I’ve seen him work hard to make tributes look good over the years. It makes it difficult to place him on my internal scale of horrible Capitol monsters to maybe not entirely awful.

I nod and smile, hoping I don’t look like a deranged puppet. “Yes, everyone has been so kind here. I’m just… so overwhelmed by it all.”

Peeta nods along, sealing the lie like it’s gospel truth.

Caesar grins. “Well, Katniss and Peeta, you are very kind. And we’re very happy to have you.” He turns dramatically to the audience. “Aren’t we, folks?”

The crowd roars in response.

Caesar leans in conspiratorially. “I think we’re all curious about your scores. An eleven, Katniss! That’s very impressive. Can we get a hint?”

I glance toward Cinna, then Haymitch, then at the Gamemakers sitting at their table. Unlike during my private session, their eyes are locked onto me, alert and focused.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to tell, right?” I direct the question toward them, the men who I shot arrows at yesterday. They yell back in mock protest, confirming that I’m not allowed to spill. I shrug at Caesar.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose we can’t hope to get anything out of you either, Peeta?”

Peeta just smiles like he knows something the rest of the world doesn’t. “My lips are sealed.” He mimics locking his mouth and tossing away the key.

The audience loves it. Peeta has them eating out of the palm of his hand. Meanwhile, I’m barely clinging to the edge.

Caesar leans back, as if resigning himself to the mystery. “I guess we’ll have to wait for the Games to find out.” Then he perks up. “Now, let’s talk about the parade. That was quite the spectacle.”

Peeta and I nod. I guess it’s my turn to contribute something.

“Yes, Cinna and Portia are brilliant. I’m actually wearing my flames today.”

Caesar gasps dramatically, and Peeta tilts his head, intrigued. He’s good at this. Too good.

“You are?” Peeta plays along.

I nod. “Would you like to see?” I direct the question to no one in particular. Or maybe to everyone.

“Yes, yes!” Caesar waves his hands excitedly.

I rise to my feet and spin. The crowd erupts in cheers as the fabric shimmers and flares around me. When I sink back into my seat, I’m dizzy—but I didn’t trip over the deathtraps strapped to my feet, which is a miracle. Effie should kiss the ground I walk on after this.

“That was amazing,” Caesar gushes. “Thank you for that.”

I give him a small, relieved smile.

His expression softens. “Now, I have one last question for each of you before you go. First, you, Katniss.”

I nod, bracing myself.

“You volunteered for your sister,” he says, his voice gentle. “I think we were all very moved by that, weren’t we, folks?”

The crowd hums in agreement.

Caesar continues, “What did you say to her before you left?”

I don’t want to answer that. I don’t want to talk about Prim. I don’t want to give them anything real. It feels like an invasion. But then I catch sight of Cinna. He nods at me, silent encouragement in his eyes.

I take a breath.

“I told her I’d win. That I’d win for her.”

The audience melts. I spot a few Capitol women dabbing at their eyes with their absurdly expensive handkerchiefs.

“And try you shall.” Caesar smiles warmly. Peeta nods at me like Cinna just did. Remembering that we’re supposed to be a team, I return the nod, trying to look grateful.

Caesar turns to Peeta. “Now, one final question for you, Peeta. A handsome young man like yourself must have someone special back home?”

The room shifts.

The playful energy stills, anticipation filling the silence. I can feel it wrapping around me, luring me in, daring me to lean forward like everyone else.

Peeta shakes his head. “No, not really.”

Caesar gasps dramatically. “I don’t believe that for a second.” The audience giggles, loving the flirtation.

Peeta hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “Well… there is this one girl.”

The energy crackles.

I frown. I try to picture him with someone back home, but no one comes to mind.

“I’ve been in love with her since I was little,” Peeta continues. “I’ve loved her forever, really. She’s the one—but I’ve never had the courage to tell her.”

Caesar is practically vibrating with excitement. “Who is she?” he asks eagerly. “I bet she’s sitting at home right now, just waiting for you to say her name.”

Peeta sighs. “She isn’t.”

The tension tightens. Even Caesar’s smile falters, like he’s truly invested in Peeta’s heartbreak. He’s good at this. No wonder he’s been doing this for decades.

“Oh?” Caesar prods gently. “How do you know that?”

And then—

Peeta’s hand is holding mine.

What?

Has he been holding it this whole time? Or did it just happen and I was too distracted by his words to notice?

“Because she came here with me.”

What the fuck?

Chapter Text

When I was twelve, my father died. I can still hear the blaring sound of the alarm used when a mining accident happens. I remember the day, down to the very last detail. The rain outside was pouring, and dark clouds hang heavy over the entire district. I was sitting at my bench in school when the alarm when off. I remember my body going rigid, feeling as if my bone marrow hade frozen over and my spine had become concrete. I didn’t wait for the teacher to tell anyone it was okay to go; I just ran. And then I stood there, watching as less and less people emerged from the smoking exits to the mines. At some point, when it was only my family and a few others left, and the grey sky had gone dark, I remember realizing that my father would not come. That he was buried down there in the dark. Dead. I remember realizing that he was dead and that there was nothing I could do to change that. 

My mother had taken us by the hand, silent as my father now was, and dragged us home while me and Prim cried hysterically. The day after she’d just sat there, staring into nothingness. An empty shell of a person. I tried for weeks to get her to speak. I changed her sheets when she peed herself at night, and I washed her with a sponge when she started to smell. And nothing. She continued to breathe but she stopped living when my father did while me and Prim starved. 

When Peeta threw me that bread he saved my life. He saved Prim’s life. And as I regained my life and my hope, my mother still did nothing. And that’s when I realized that love makes you weak. How one love can hurt so many people. Since that realization, I’ve sworn off love. I don’t care if I’m hurt, not like that. I care if me hurting would hurt the people that depend on me. I had no choice in who depend on me, and I wouldn’t trade Primrose for anything, but I don’t need anyone else that could get hurt because of me. I refuse to be weak because of something as fickle as love. Especially when love lead to marriage, and marriage lead to children. Something I will never have. 

”What the hell did you do that for?” We barely make it to the elevator before I push Peeta against the wall forcefully. ”We’re supposed to be a team, we’re supposed to trust each other. You asked me to trust you, and then you go and tell the whole world that you love me?”

Peeta looks at me frightened and a little hurt but also what I think is understanding. He doesn’t stop me when I push him even though he most definitely could, and he doesn’t yell at me back when I yell at him. It’s Haymitch that drags me off him. 

”Let me go!” 

”Not until you calm down.” Haymitch breath still smells of alcohol but it’s probably permanent at this point because he seems sober. 

”Calm down?” I repeat. ”Fucking calm down?” My voice becomes louder. ”He made us look weak out there. All that work down the drain!” I know I must look rabid, but I don’t care. Peeta avoids my glare which is pathetic. The least he could do is own up to what he did. 

”He made you look desirable. The girl on fire and her star crossed lover.” Haymitch releases me so he can force me to look at him. His face is serious. Seamgrey eyes wide and awake, lips pursed in annoyance. 

”He’s not my star crossed lover!”

”It’s a television show! Peeta just created a suspense around your team, got them talking. Everyone is curious now about how you’ll work in the games. What kind of show the two of you’ll put on.” Haymitch signs deeply and points to Peeta. ”Once again, the boy saves you both. It’s time you start pulling your end.” 

The last part stops me cold, cutting off whatever sharp retort was forming on my tongue. My hands fall to my sides, suddenly heavy, as I glance at Peeta. He won’t look at me. His gaze is fixed somewhere else, anywhere but here. The boy with the bread—the one who once saved me when no one else did, who has shown me nothing but kindness since we arrived—would he really set me up to fail? What could he possibly gain from that?

Saving someone? That I can believe. But casting himself as the noble rescuer, turning me into some helpless girl in need of protection? That doesn’t seem like Peeta.

I swallow hard, my thoughts drifting to the ones I left behind. My mother, blank-eyed at the kitchen table, Prim with her fragile, hopeless hope. And Gale. What will they think when they see this?

What will my mother think, sitting silently at our kitchen table, watching the television in that vacant way of hers? Will she even react? And Prim—Prim, who still believes in fairy tales, who still hopes for something soft and beautiful in a world that doesn’t allow it—what will she think? Will she be thrilled by Peeta’s confession? Will she giggle and clasp her hands together, convinced that maybe, just maybe, her sister will have something more than survival waiting for her at the end of this?

And Gale.

But now, for the first time since I was called to the stage, I wonder what he’ll see when he watches this interview. Will he scoff? Will he roll his eyes and mutter something about the Capitol and its ridiculous games? 

I can’t think about them—about what they’re feeling, what they’ll say when they see this. I can’t afford to. The only thing that matters is here, now, and whatever twisted game is unfolding around me.

I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes at both Peeta and Haymitch. If this is a game, then what’s our next move?

“So this is the strategy then?” My voice is sharp, laced with something between defiance and exhaustion. “Me and Peeta running around holding hands inside the arena? Kissing and killing?”

Peeta looks like he’s about to answer, but Haymitch cuts in before he can. “You do whatever you have to in order to get as many sponsors as possible. That’s my advice if you want to stay alive.”

I shift my glare to Peeta, searching his face for something—hesitation, regret, anything. “Is that what you want?” My voice is hard, challenging.

Peeta meets my eyes with something softer, something that unsettles me more than any of this. “I want whatever will keep us alive.” His voice is quieter, but no less firm.

I let out a breath, sharp and unwilling. “Fine.” I turn my gaze to Haymitch again. ”How do we stay alive?”

His sigh makes my stomach tighten with dread. He gestures for us to sit on the couch. Out of spite, I take the far end, as far away from Peeta as possible. He gives me a hurt look, and Haymitch rolls his eyes.

Haymitch takes a big gulp of his whiskey, and I shoot him a death glare.
“I survived the last Quarter Quell,” he says. “I’ve mentored twenty-four Games since then—excluding you two. Not very successfully, I might add.” He lets out a bitter laugh, empty of any humor. “In a regular year, it’s somewhat easy to predict the arena and what horrors might befall the tributes. But a year like this? Especially with the rules you’re facing? There’s no telling what might happen—or what’s waiting for you in there. The arena will be bigger. The stakes, higher. Honestly, I’m more sure about how they’ll make the Games last more than a day.”

“Why?” Peeta asks. His question echoes the one in my own head.

“Usually, ten tributes die in the initial bloodbath. But with this year’s rule, teammates and all that, the number could easily double. That means we could be down to four tributes in less than an hour.”

I shudder at the thought. More than the bloodshed itself, I fear dying because of Peeta. Or him dying because of me. The dependency of it all.

“What are your theories, then?” Peeta again, always the one asking the right questions.

“Maybe they’ll ditch the traditional ring around the Cornucopia and drop you in different parts of the arena. But that would mean less action, and the Capitol doesn’t like boring.” Haymitch shrugs. “Or maybe they’ll throw in obstacles to make it harder for you to kill each other right away. Whatever they do, you can be sure of one thing – you two have big red targets on your backs. Stay away from the others, especially the Careers. Your scores embarrassed them, and they’ll be looking for revenge.”

I glare at him. “So what do we do?” I ask again, still desperate for some kind of direction.

“I have no idea, sweetheart.”
I frown at the nickname, stupid and condescending as always.

“If there is a traditional Cornucopia,” Haymitch continues, “run in the opposite direction. Your trackers won’t let you move more than seven feet apart, so you’ll have to run the same way or not at all. Don’t do anything reckless like diving for a bow. Just run. Get as far away from the others as possible. And find water. Fast.”

*

The eerie pink glow from the television bathes my room as the recap of the interviews begins. I hadn’t planned on watching, but curiosity gets the better of me. I need to see how bad I was. And I need to see what they’ll see back home.

I barely register the other tributes. I’ve already watched them once, and now, all I feel is a growing knot of dread in my stomach. Many of them will be dead tomorrow. For some, tonight is their last night of sleep. The thought nearly makes me sick.

Then Peeta and I appear on the screen, stepping onto the stage, and something catches my attention immediately—our outfits. They match. I hadn’t even noticed before, but now, under the stage lights, we look unmistakably like a team. Like a pair.

Peeta carries himself with an effortless confidence, his charm weaving through the conversation with practiced ease. He’s completely in control. And next to him, I look like… a gaping fish.

"Do you want to see?" The way I ask the question, the way it’s edited, makes it look like I directed it at Peeta. I hadn’t even realized. It wasn’t my intention. I think. On screen, Peeta smiles and nods, encouraging me. When I sit down, I blush—embarrassed at the time, mortified now—but the way the interview is cut, it makes it seem like I’m blushing because of Peeta.

Then comes the moment. His confession.

When Peeta declares his love, I brace myself for what I thought my reaction had been—shock, anger, betrayal. But the girl on screen isn’t furious. She isn’t glaring. Instead, she’s blushing, eyes darting down to the floor like some schoolgirl with a crush.

It’s a reaction I would never have been able to fake on my own. No matter how sincerely in love I look from the outside, I know the shock and embarrassment I felt. Had I known before hand that Peeta was going to do this, I know I wouldn’t have been able to conjure up more than a stony face and grimace for a smile. The betrayal still doesn’t hurt any less just because it played well on camera. But I do have to concede on behalf of my potential sponsors and impending survival. 

*

I toss and turn in bed  for what feels like hours before I give up and head to the roof, hoping that some fresh air might help me sleep. I’m in desperate need of it, but my mind won’t turn off, and every second that I fail to sleep, my anxiety drastically increases. I know how bad I am at hunting when I’ve had abad night but then I can almost always take a breather in a meadow or patch or grass. If I take a breather tomorrow I won’t be doing much breather at all anymore. 

I’m startled by Peeta’s presence and I almost turn around and go back to my room and the security of loneliness. But he notices me and I cannot have him thinking that I’m avoiding him, even though that is what I’m doing. As much as I can until my life depends on sticking together anyway. 

”Hi.” I greet him, my voice timid. Peeta’s gaze follows me and I get a hesitant greeting. I huff, annoyed at myself for causing this strange awkwardness that I have never seen in him before. 

”I’m sorry about earlier.” I say quickly, and turn my gaze to the skyline in order to avoid Peeta’s. I don’t miss how hi raises his eyebrows in question though. ”For yelling at you.” I clarify. 

”It’s okay.” I glance at him. His voice it silent, barely noticeable over the wind. I look back at him. It isn’t okay, but I don’t argue. The last thing we need right now is to fight. We’ll be doing enough of that in a few hours. Way too few. 

We sit in silence for a long time, one question laying heavily on my mind, clouding my judgment. ”Is it true?” After I’ve let the words slip out, I wish them back and I almost sigh in relief when I think he doesn’t hear it. 

”Does it matter?” Peeta looks at me so intently that I cannot escape with my gaze to the skyline. I’m bound to look at him. I nod. 

”It does if you want me to trust you.” 

Peeta sighs. ”It’s true.” The words are heavier than any weight I can carry and blood rushes to my face. I refuse – ”I don’t expect you to feel the same so don’t worry.” I squirm uncomfortably at the ease in which Peeta throws around words that mean love. How can he possibly feel that way about me, he doesn’t even know me. And I owe him a debt I’ve never repaid. I feel panic start to flow through my body. Thankfully Peeta interrupts my train of thoughts. 

”I don’t want to kill anyone.” His change of subject is morbid, and borderline absurd. Love and death. Oh how they fit together well. In my mind love does not come without it. 

”You have to if you want to win.” Calling it winning feels wrong, but what other word could be used? In order to come home, you have to become a killer, and you do not come home alive unless you come home a Victor. 

Peeta’s gaze is still as intense as it was minutes ago. As if he’s looking into my soul. ”If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Had this been a regular year, I would’ve probably died in the bloodbath.” 

I frown in confusion. ”You got a ten.”

”Because you’ve given me something to fight for.” Again with the declarations. 

”Do you not want to live?” I ask. What about his family? His friends? I’ve seen him back home. He’s constantly surrounded by a big group of friends. Peeta is very popular, and yet he seems so certain of his own demise, if it weren’t for me. 

”I do, but I don’t want to be just another piece in their games.” He says bitterly, his voice is edged with quiet defiance.

”So I’m forcing you to kill?” I snap, anger flashing before I can stop it. Peeta laughs. He laughs. 

”No, you’re forcing me to survive. I could never allow myself to die when that means that you’ll die.” I frown. 

“Good,” I say, more firmly than I intend. “Because you’re not allowed to die.”

I need to repay him. For the bread. For everything. ”And you cannot afford to think like that. I can’t think like that. I need to get back to Prim.”

His expression softens into something so serious, so resolute, that, for just a moment, my doubts fall silent.”And you will. I will do everything I can do make sure of that.” His words land hard. Genuine. Solid. I have to blink fast, forcing the tears back. How is he so steady, so kind, even now? He’s like a mountain, unmoved by the storm, and I feel like nothing more than a twig caught in the wind.

Thank you, Peeta,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He rises to leave. “It costs nothing to be kind,” he says with a soft smile, his dimple appearing like a secret.

I think of all the times his mother cursed at me and Gale when we traded at the bakery. All the times Peeta came to school with fresh bruises. 

“It costs nothing to be an asshole, either,” I mutter.

Peeta bursts out laughing. It surprises me—and somehow, I find myself smiling too.

“You’re right about that, Katniss,” he says. Then he heads for the elevator. “See you tomorrow.”

When I estimate that the sun will rise in two hours, I get up and leave as well. Hoping for one last, somewhat peaceful sleep. At least without anyone trying to kill me. 

Chapter Text

I watch the sun rise, casting my room in a soft pink glow. The irony of such a visually beautiful morning on this day is not lost on me. It’s as if some unknown force is mocking my despair, laughing at my suffering. Or maybe it's giving me one last taste of something untouched and real. The universe’s insistence on reminding me of everything I’m about to lose makes me shake with anger, and my heart ache with anguish.

This sunrise marks the end of my time in the Capitol. The party is over, and I will leave this place not knowing if I’ll ever see another real sunrise again. I promised I wouldn't indulge in melancholy again. Once was all I can afford.

Eventually, I have to move. Getting dressed is a burden. It doesn’t matter what I wear—other clothes, chosen by the Gamemakers, will be given to me soon enough. I don’t even register what I’m wearing until I’m led out to the platform where the hovercraft will collect Peeta and me. Haymitch makes a quick remark about my interesting color combo, probably a last-ditch attempt to lighten the mood. Or to make himself feel less uncomfortable. I reckon it’s the latter. Peeta asks for any last advice. Haymitch tells us to stay together. As if we have a choice.

Their voices float around me like distant echoes, and I don’t dignify anyone with a response. My eyes stay fixed on the sunrise, which is growing less and less pink by the minute.

”It was a beautiful sunrise.” Peeta whispers beside me. I don’t know if he means it as this morning or as in the last one we’ll ever see.

Did he notice my fixation, or is he echoing my thoughts? I hum softly in reply. A sunrise is no longer any of my concern.

“Arm, please,” says an attendant with an entirely forgettable face. The way she says it makes it clear that it's not a question. I do as she says.

“Why?” I ask as she pulls out a menacing-looking medical device.

“Tracker,” she replies simply, then presses the needle into my arm. It hurts more than I expected, but the pain fades almost instantly, as if there’s a numbing agent in it. All that is left is a small indent in my arm and the lasting echo of something uncomfortable. Not physically uncomfortable, but mentally. 

She implants one in Peeta’s arm as well, and I’m glad to see him wince less than I did. Maybe my reaction prepared him or maybe he just has a higher pain tolerance. The latter would be useful right now.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I think of Peeta’s mother and his recurring bruises. Pain tolerance seems likely. I never understood why she would do that. Peeta has always seemed kind. I can’t imagine him doing anything to warrant that kind of response. Except, maybe, for what he did for me but I refuse to think about that. Not now. Maybe later. If there ever comes a later.

“Your trackers are now activated. From now on, you will not be able to move more than seven feet from each other,” the attendant says, then leaves.

Peeta meets my gaze and holds it for a while, until I break it.

This will be the hardest part of the Games.

Stone-cold Careers, starvation, infection, I expected all of that. But never being alone again, possibly ever...

That is…burdensome.

The sky has turned bright and blue as we’re brought to the Stockyards. A grimly named place, but undeniably fitting.

As we’re led below, it I ponder that above me is a place where I might die. Not in the sense that I didn’t know it before, but now the thought presses in, sharper, closer. I might never see anything like the pinkness of this morning’s sky again.

If I see dusk tonight, it won’t be real. It won’t be the golden dusk that filters through the trees in Twelve, nor the shadowed farewell of the Capitol’s horizon. It’ll be something constructed. Close enough to pass, but never enough to feel true.

My breath quickens. I’m not necessarily afraid of dying. I mean—I don’t want to die—but that’s not what claws at me.

It’s the thought of dying beneath something designed. For a moment I fantasize how it would feel to see the sky fall, sweep me away and crumble beneath my feet. 

But then I press my fingernails into the palms of my hands, grounding myself in reality. I force myself to accept that I’m in the launch room, with Peeta and Cinna. That I’m being asked to change into clothes I didn’t choose, and encouraged to eat for my own good even though I’m not hungry.

“Katniss?” I flinch at the sound of my name. Was it Peeta who said it? Or Cinna? Maybe Portia, just now entering the room? I glance around, but it’s hard to tell who called me from behind the thin curtain—some last-minute attempt at modesty, I suppose. Why even bother at this point?

Still, the thought of changing in the same room as Peeta makes me blush uncomfortably, so I’m grateful for the barrier.

“How do your clothes feel?” Cinna. I think. Maybe. Does it matter? It’s his voice now.

I’m wearing some kind of tight-fitting suit in a stretchy material that leaves little to the imagination. It’s snug—compressing in a way that somehow feels comforting—and it looks easy to move in. But it’s thin. If the nights get cold, this outfit could be my downfall.

I pull back the curtain and clear my throat. 

“It fits.”

Cinna studies me, his eyes tracing the outfit and measuring with a kind of silent precision. He rubs the fabric of my sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, brow furrowed in thought. Then he glances at Portia, and something passes between them, silent and assured.

“The material suggests a warm arena,” Cinna says finally, looking at me.

“Probably humid as well,” Portia adds.

I turn toward her just as Peeta steps out from behind his curtain, wearing a replica of my suit. The fabric clings to him the same way it clings to me, and I quickly avert my eyes, warmth creeping up my neck.

“You’ll also be wearing these,” Cinna says, fastening a belt around my waist. Attached to it is a coil of rope and a hook with some sort of locking mechanism.

“What are these?” I ask, eyeing the gear. I’ve never seen tributes receive anything remotely resembling a weapon before entering the arena and this rope could easily be used to strangle someone. The thought is chilling.

“Climbing hooks,” Cinna explains. “The rope will hold your weight easily.”

Climbing hooks. I frown. The pit in my stomach deepens. What kind of arena are they sending us into?

I glance at Peeta, eyes wide.

“Please tell me you know how to climb,” I say, almost begging.

He blushes, looking slightly ashamed.

“I’ve never tried,” he admits, voice uncertain, “but I probably could?” He glances toward Cinna and Portia. “Being strong helps, right?”

Portia places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

I stand, intending to pace, to burn off the panic rising in my chest but I barely take a step before something holds me back. It’s like an invisible tether has snapped tight. I look to Peeta. He’s exactly seven feet away.

Horrified, I stare at the floor. My heart pounds against my ribs, too hard, too fast. I can’t seem to breathe properly, my chest rising in short, shallow bursts. The others are watching, but their faces blur as my vision darkens at the edges. My ears ring with a pulsing rush.

Still, I manage to speak through it, my voice distant in my own head.

“Always make sure you have a steady grip. Do not move your hand until you have somewhere else to hold onto. And always try to balance your weight.”

Through the haze, I see Peeta nod quickly, as if memorizing my words like a lifeline.

”Ten seconds to launch.” The voice over the intercom startles me. I cast my gaze around the room, giving panicked stares to everyone. Cinna sees my frightened state and takes my face in his hands. 

”I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, I’d bet on you.” He looks at Peeta. ”Both of you.” And that calms me enough to get me into the glass tube. Peeta stands next to me. The plattform we stand on is bigger than earlier years, made to accommodate two people. 

Peeta says nothing as we start to ascend. I don’t either. The silence is deafening, but right now I wouldn’t have it any other way. I couldn’t handle Peeta’s encouraging words when I’m entering a contest that means life or death. That Peeta doesn’t offer any such words speaks louder anyway. He has none, because not even he can offer condolence when faced with this. 

For a few seconds there is nothing but darkness. The time between where the launch room is visible and we enter the arena is nothing but black. An empty space where nothing exists, not even time. And then, blearing brightness that hurts my eyes until they adjust. I struggle to accommodate the sudden light for longer than I can afford and it’s not until countdown starts that I see my surroundings.

The Cornucopia stands directly in front of us but the spacing is different. The distance between tributes is wider than usual, and there’s even more space between us and the golden horn itself. They’re giving us more time. More time to escape, if we don’t want to fight.

But it’s not until I look down—and then up—that I understand.

We’re not standing in a field or on a meadow. We’re on a grass-covered platform, suspended in the air so high up I can’t see the ground beneath. If there even is ground. It might as well be sky beneath us, an endless drop that would kill on impact.

All around are colossal tree trunks, thick and intertwined, wrapped in moss and vines and flowering plants. Some are massive enough that a train could pass through them. Behind us looms a trunk so wide I can’t even estimate how long it would take to walk its circumference.

My gaze sweeps the arena. We’re in a tree. The entire arena is a tree. One so massive it stretches far above and below us, the ground out of reach, the canopy unreachable.

That’s why we have ropes and hooks. They don’t want us to run. They want us to climb.

There’s nowhere to go laterally. No flat ground to dash across except for this small patch of grass we’re placed on. The only way to move is up or across these massive branches that function more like highways than limbs.

From what I can tell, though looks are always deceiving in the arena and there is certainly more than meets the eye beyond the Cornucopia.

This is how they make sure the Games don’t end in an hour. They don’t force us into a bloodbath. They give us time. They give us options. And then they wait. Because the real game is survival. And this arena is a trap disguised as mercy.

”Let the 75th annual Hunger Games begin!” Claudius Tempelsmith’s voice is strangely muffled by all the greenery around us, but I hear it clear enough. The countdown begins and I cast panicked gazes around me and then at Peeta. His face is schooled into a passive mask but his eyes shine with terror. Whatever he meets in my own gaze makes him take my hand and squeeze once, and for once, I welcome the small comfort. If only for a fraction of a second. 

In the center of the golden horn stands a bow. It’s displayed with several horns filled with arrows and is gleaming in the sun proudly. Mockingly. Daring me to grab it. 

”How fast can you run?” I whisper quietly. 

Peeta glances toward District 1. “Not fast enough.”

“Twenty,
Nineteen,
Eighteen...”

My heart pounds in my ears. How will I survive without my bow? Forget killing. What about starvation? Has Peeta ever truly known hunger?

“We need weapons,” I whisper urgently.

“They’re no use if we die here,” Peeta snaps back. I’ve never heard him sound like this, his voice raw, frantic, and demanding.

“Ten,
Nine...”

My chest feels like a cage, barely containing my pounding heart. I scan the area desperately. My eyes lock on a heavy backpack lying just short of the Cornucopia.

“We go for that backpack. No further. Grab whatever you can on the way, then we climb the trunk behind us. There’s an easy path to the right.”

There’s no time to wait for his answer. The boom sounds and we leap from the platform together.

I sprint with everything I have, keeping my eye on Opal to the left the whole time. They’re heading directly for the Cornucopia but struggling against their tether, just like everyone else. Chaos erupts. Some tributes are frozen, arguing about which direction to run, trying to pull each other in opposite ways. Fred and Sheila from Eleven break away from the bloodbath entirely, heading into the trees. But even the Careers are slower than expected. Peeta and I are faster.

He snatches the heavy backpack with ease as I grab a smaller one and a nearby spear. No screams yet. But I hear yelling. I look up to see Opal shouting at Mason. Mason’s still heading for the Cornucopia, but her voice turns him toward us. She’s seen us. She’s said something.

I don’t wait to find out what.

“We need to go. Now!” I shout.

Peeta nods and we sprint for the edge of the grassy platform. Just as we reach it, the first scream pierces the air. Then two cannons fire. The deaths that follow are quiet.

Usually, the cannons don’t sound until after the bloodbath ends. But this year, it’s different. There’s less blood, or so the Gamemakers must have planned. Still, by the time we reach what I thought would be an easy climb, six cannons have already fired.

The trunk is lined with barely visible loops, designed to anchor our climbing hooks. It makes the climb both easier and harder. We move slower than I’d like, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it means we won’t fall to our deaths.

Screams echo below us as we ascend into unknown territory. We climb in silence, hours slipping past in frustrated quiet. No one seems to be close behind. At least, no one I can see.

And still, there is no end in sight.

When my breath starts coming out in ragged gasps, I glance down at Peeta. Exhaustion clings to him, but there’s still determination in his eyes. His lips are cracked, and the heavy bags under his eyes beg for rest. I probably don’t look much better, judging by the worried frown he gives me when our eyes meet.

“We need to find somewhere to rest,” I pant quietly.

Peeta nods.

My muscles tremble as I grip the trunk, scanning the massive branches around us. They’re close enough to reach, but most offer little protection. One, though, stands out. A thick branch, partially hidden beneath vines that hang from the one above it. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t see it. I point it out to Peeta, and he nods again. He looks pale. Too pale. Probably too tired to speak.

When we reach the branch, I haul myself up through sheer willpower. Peeta grunts loudly as he joins me, but I don’t scold him. I’m too exhausted to speak.

“At least we’re alone here,” he gasps after a few minutes of nothing but our labored breathing.

“Is there any water in that bag?” I rasp.

Peeta hands it to me, and I begin unpacking it on the massive branch. A handful of crackers. Several sealed bags of dried meat and fruit. Matches. Two small knives. A large jug filled with water. One sleeping bag.

If I weren’t so dehydrated, I might’ve blushed at that last item. Peeta leans in to inspect the contents.

“That’s good, right?” he asks.

I nod. It’s a generous supply for the Games. Too generous. It only heightens my unease.

We haven’t checked the smaller pack yet, but for now, we both take careful, rationed sips from the water jug. We’re not in the Capitol anymore. There’s no room for indulgence.

After a while, Peeta starts repacking the supplies. “What’s in the other one?” he asks, sounding less breathless than before.

I hand it to him, and he begins unpacking it the same way. Inside is a large first-aid kit, a coil of snare line, an empty canister, and more rope. Not as useful as the first, but still valuable.

“We should anchor ourselves to the branch, just in case,” I say.

Peeta nods. The risk of falling is low since the branch is massive but a strong wind or a Gamemaker’s whim could prove deadly. I’m not willing to take that chance.

When the sun begins to descend, the golden light is, as I predicted, too shiny. Not the delicate embrace of a sunset back home. Instead, it’s a harsh glare, turning into a loud, artificial orange like one of Effie Trinket’s wigs.

“Orange is usually my favorite color,” Peeta whispers beside me. The quiet weight in his voice makes my stomach twist and drop. How cruel, that even a favorite color can be ruined by the Games.

I hum in response, glancing at him. Our eyes meet briefly, and I hope whatever I can’t say out loud is somehow conveyed in that look.

“We should sleep,” I say once the air grows colder.

The sleeping bag lies between us like something cursed, its presence too obvious in the quiet.

“You can take the sleeping bag. I’ll be alright,” Peeta says, but his shivering lips betray him. He won’t make it through the night like this. And we’re supposed to be in love, right? Letting my boyfriend freeze wouldn’t sit well with the sponsors.

Pretend boyfriend. Even the word feels heavy in my mind. I barely know Peeta. How am I supposed to fake being in love with him while also trying to survive?

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll freeze to death,” I say matter-of-factly and nudge him into the sleeping bag beside me.

It’s not until we’re zipped in and anchored safely to the branch that I realize just how close we are. I can feel his breath against my neck, and it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, one I blame entirely on the night’s cold.

“Well... good night,” Peeta whispers.

“Night,” I reply. Good would be the wrong word for a day that began with a perfect sunrise and ended in a violent sunset.

Chapter Text

I awaken abruptly to the muffled sound of the announcement of todays fallen tributes. Calling them fallen feels wrong, but might in all irony be right considering the arena. Still, calling them what they are would probably not sit as well with the Capitol. Too hard to stomach the mention of murder, yet watching it live is nothing. To them. To me, each scream still haunts me. I didn’t see anything, but hearing it was enough. 

Peeta is snoring lightly besides me, every rise and fall of his chest painfully obvious against my own body. I rise and fall with them. He didn’t seem to wake from the sound, and behind our curtain of vines, the light from the projector isn’t as bright. But still, heavy sleeper. Not ideal. 

I’m surprised as the faces of the eager redhead from four and her thirteen year old teammate appear first. Even though she volunteered, I still mourn the loss of them. I can only guess what happened, but her being the causality of his death does not seem farfetched. Next is the tributes from six. Their names fall from my memory as soon as their picture does, as does the tributes from eight. The announcement turns off and an eerie silence is all that follows. Six dead, less than usual. But I have no doubt that wasn’t intentional. These games take two tributes for every kill. They have to make them last. 

I look at Peeta. None of the terror or determination he had earlier is present on his face now that he sleeps. All that is there is a face of innocence. The contrast of this place against that is glaring. 

Our conversation from yesterday replays in my head. It doesn’t feel real that it was only yesterday. I find it hard looking at him as I contemplate his declaration. How can he throw out words such as love so easily? He doesn’t know me. We’ve never spoken prior to these games, and there hasn’t been anything but terror since we left twelve. I don’t know what ulterior motive he might have that would make him benefit from having me believe him to be in love with me, but it must be something. And yet, the boy that threw me bread does not strike me as someone that would do something like that. Also, what benefit would there be? But without a reason for deceit, that only leaves it as truth, which is even more uncomfortable. 

A rustling sound pulls me back sharply. I ease myself off the sleeping bag and slip quietly from the shared warmth. That’s all it takes to stir Peeta. I press a finger to my lips. He nods, instantly alert.

I creep toward the edge of the branch as far as I can manage. The rope we used to anchor ourselves gives me a bit of room, but the invisible tether between us keeps me from straying too far.

Below, I hear voices. None that I recognize. I let out a soft sigh. Not the Careers, at least. Though if these strangers keep making this much noise, it’s only a matter of time before someone who matters hears them.

Peeta shifts slightly, giving me room to inch closer to the edge. Through the vines and tangled branches, I glimpse the abyss below, endless and dark. Far off, I can even spot the Cornucopia. I’ve never thought of myself as afraid of heights, but any sane person would feel anxious in this arena.

I smell the smoke before I see it. Are they insane? They might as well scream “come kill us.” And what if the fire spreads? Lighting one in a tree. I’ve never seen such incredible idiocy.

My gaze flicks to Peeta, whose worried frown mirrors my own thoughts. At least he’s not as oblivious as they are. He shifts closer again, but I shake my head. I only have so much trust in our anchor.

“What should we do?” His voice is barely a whisper, but my heart still spikes. I move back, closer to him.

“Nothing,” I say, leaning against the trunk with an inaudible huff. There’s nothing we can do. We barely have weapons, and I certainly can’t use a spear. My eyes settle on Peeta. Can he? How did he score a ten? It never occurred to me until now that it might’ve been useful to ask. I was too preoccupied with surviving.

The voices drift upward. I can even make out distinct sentences. If we can hear them, others definitely can.

A shiver runs through me.

“You should get back in the sleeping bag,” Peeta whispers. “It’s cold.”

I frown. Who is he to order me around? He’s not even in the bag himself. And besides, it’s not cold. It’s humid and chilly at the same time. Like a fever.

I shake my head. “You should sleep, though. I’ll watch.”

I don’t know if he’s too tired to argue or if he agrees with me, but he just shrugs and packs himself tightly back into the bag that’s really too small for two. I could feel every inch of him pressed against me as we slept earlier. The warmth had been welcome, the closeness, less so. Claustrophobic.

Nothing happens for hours. The tributes below have long since stopped talking. The embers of their fire crackle. As the night deepens, the flames burn as bright as the sunset from before. Smoke curls upward, creeping into our hiding place. It’s a choking embrace, sharp in my lungs. Peeta’s hand won’t stop twitching. The quiet whir of the cameras hidden in the trees buzzes like an echo stitched into the dark. And then, silence. 

BOOM. 

Dead.

”No, no please! Help me!” A horrifying gurgling sound. 

Canon. 

Dead. 

I stare straight ahead, eyes wide, breath lodged in my throat. Peeta’s hand has gone still. His breathing is shallow. Hollow. He heard.

”Kat-” I whip around to meet Peeta’s horrified gaze. He stills. On shaky legs I crawl forward. The tributes who’s names I don’t know lie motionless on the branch below. Their killers are no where to be seen. My heart slams against my ribs as I scan the trees, but nothing stirs.As if they were killed by ghosts. My stomach is heavy, as if I’ve swallowed a ball of lead. 

The embers of the fire are almost out by the time the hovercraft comes to collect the bodies. There is only one claw, and it gathers the both of them as blood drips from their bodies like heavy, metallic rain. A few drops land on our branch, and my stomach turns. I back away slowly, my hands, my legs, my entire body shaking. The image of them is etched into my brain. 

Maybe if I had told them to extinguish the fire. Maybe if I had told them to be silent. 

Maybe then they wouldn’t be dead. 

But we probably would be. 

Peeta takes my shaking hand. I let him take it. But I don’t squeeze back. And he doesn’t let go. 

His eyes don’t leave me. I feel them like heat, boring into the side of my face, but I don’t look back. I just stare into the dark. At some point it starts to rain, soft at first, then heavier, cold and constant. In my mind, I imagine it’s blood, covering the entire arena in a thick, suffocating red. But when dawn begins to claw through the trees and black turns to grey, there’s no blood. Just water. Dripping from everything. Endless.

“We need to move.” My voice is raw. Barely more than breath.

“We need to eat,” Peeta says. His words go straight to my stomach like a knife. Right. We haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. I nod once.

We split a few crackers and some jerky, careful to ration our water. Every gulp feels like a risk.

When we’re done, we pack silently.

“Where do we go?” Peeta asks quietly, still cautious. Still remembering what happened last night.

I scan the branches. Everything is slick with rain and moss. A climb now would be like skating on glass. I think of metal hooks slipping free and bodies falling.

“We need better shelter. Maybe weapons,” I say. I don’t add how we’ll get them. Or that I want my bow. The thought of returning to the Cornucopia is one I’ve barely let myself hold, but now it presses at the edges of my mind. Peeta’s frown deepens, and I don’t need him to say anything to know what he thinks.

“Unless you have a better idea?” I add, too sharply. Great. Romance at its finest.

He glances down at the bloodstained branch beneath us, jaw tight. “If we climb now, we’ll be seen. Maybe there’s another branch close by.”

“If we stay, we might run into whoever killed them,” I counter, pointing down. His wince says enough.

“Maybe we could…” He trails off, eyes scanning the surroundings. Then he crouches and lifts a handful of wet mud.

I stare. “Mud?”

His grin is sudden and strangely out of place. Almost… eager. “Camouflage. We cover the suits and packs, and we’ll be harder to spot.”

It’s a good idea. Better than anything I’ve come up with. I nod. “Okay. I just don’t know how.”

He kneels and scoops more mud, already moving toward me. “Don’t worry. I do. I used to decorate the cakes.”

The memory hits me like a blow. Prim, dragging me to the bakery window, her eyes wide. A white cake with delicate purple flowers. It’s still etched into my mind. His work.

“Stand still,” he says, and I do.

His hands are surprisingly gentle. They move over my arms, down my back, careful but steady. The mud is cold, but his touch burns. It’s not intimate, not really, but the longer it goes on, the more aware I become of every point of contact. Especially when his hands slide over my chest, lingering just long enough to make my breath hitch.

I clear my throat. “Prim loves the cakes. From the bakery.”

He pauses, then looks up at me. His eyes are sincere. Too sincere.

“I’ll bake her the biggest cake she’s ever seen when we get home.” His voice is soft. A promise.

My throat tightens. I nod, swallowing down whatever’s trying to rise.

Then he hesitates again. “Um… I think I need to paint your face too.”

My stomach twists, and not because of hunger. “Okay,” I say, unsure.

His fingers trail over my jaw, across my cheekbones, the mud cold against my skin. We’re so close I can hear his breathing. The closeness shouldn’t feel unfamiliar by now, and yet it does. Everything still feels borrowed. Like the bodies we’re wearing don’t quite belong to us.

At least the mud hides the flush rising beneath my skin.

When Peeta is done with me, he paints himself. If I look anything like him, we’re practically invisible.

“Peeta, that’s amazing,” I murmur. I still don’t understand how he managed it without a mirror.

The smile he gives me doesn’t belong in this world. It’s something soft, out of place. He shrugs and picks up our bags, handing me the smaller one. I nod in thanks.

“So, up?” he asks, hesitant.

I glance toward the heights above us. Higher into this twisted death trap. What could possibly go wrong?

“Yeah.” My voice doesn’t sound as certain as I’d like.

We move with even more caution than yesterday. Every hook is checked twice. My muscles burn from the last climb. A deep, dragging ache that reminds me how breakable I am. But stopping isn’t an option.

I climb first. I have more experience. And, honestly, Peeta has a better chance of catching me than I do him if one of us falls. The tether between us makes things harder. We have to move in sync, and he’s not as fast. Not as fluid. We learn each other’s rhythm with every move, and the price for a mistake is fatal.

My heart slams against my ribs by the time we reach a new branch, one veined with a thin waterfall. The water glides down unnaturally. Another gift from the Gamemakers. From certain angles, you wouldn’t even see it.

But it might be clean.

I exhale sharply. If the water’s safe, this branch could be good enough to rest on. I point it out to Peeta. I don’t know if he hears or just follows, but either way, he comes. His trust in me is… unsettling. 

Every time he looks at me, he sees the girl on fire. But fire consumes.

Getting up on the branch proves harder than yesterday. There are no hooks. The only way up is to unclip the anchor and climb freely. If I move too fast, the tether between us snaps taut, locking me in place.

The bark is slick with rain. The moss looks like a trap. My arms shake from exhaustion.

“Peeta!” I yell, my voice muffled by the trees but just loud enough for him, I hope, and not anyone else.

The ever-present hum of the cameras above buzzes louder, hungrier. We’re being watched. I see Prim and my mother in my mind’s eye, holding their breath. And somewhere, the Capitol is probably cheering for our deaths.

The wind picks up, howling through the branches.

The Gamemakers are playing.

“Katniss!” Peeta’s voice is strained. “We need to move!”

I nod frantically.

“There are no loops!”

He sees it too, the fear blooming behind his eyes.

He climbs closer, until he’s nearly beside me. But the branch above is more than seven feet away. I can’t reach it unless he unhooks himself, too.

“Follow my lead!” I shout.

“Maybe we should try a different branch!” His voice is almost lost in the wind.

I look around. The loops we used to get here – they’re gone.

Dread replaces the blood in my body.

“This is the only way!” I say, more to myself than him.

My muscles are trembling so badly I can barely keep hold. All my years of climbing can’t prepare me for this — not for the stakes, not for the cold.

I unhook. The anchor dangles uselessly at my hip.

I throw Peeta my end of the rope. He clips it to his own. A single, fragile lifeline between us.

His mouth opens in horror as I begin to climb.

Even through his exhaustion, he moves with me. Step for step. Pull for pull.

The bark is slick and the moss betrays my grip. Every upward reach burns. The wind drowns out even my own breath. The only way I know he’s still there is that I’m not falling.

When I reach the moss-covered branch, I test my footing. It holds. Carefully, I find a loop and clip back in, lungs heaving, arms numb.

Then I hear it.

Peeta grunts, and then he slips.

My head turns in slow motion.

He’s falling.

I grab the rope, locking my arms, but I’m slipping too. The moss gives way under my feet. My boots skid uselessly.

Then my foot catches in a crevice. Just enough.

“Katniss!” he yells, voice strangled.

“Hold on!” I scream, yanking the rope with everything I have. I don’t know what’ll kill me first – the fall or the tracker in my arm if he dies. All I know is I have to hold on.

I pull until my hands bleed. My vision swims. My face is streaked with tears or rain or both, I can’t tell.

And then – pale fingers appear on the branch.

A sob punches out of my lungs.

When Peeta drags his weight up onto the wood, I don’t hesitate. With trembling fingers, I latch him into the loop beside me. We’re safe. For now.

I throw my arms around him and press my face to his chest, shaking. If I can feel his heartbeat, I can believe we’re still alive.

I hold Peeta against me like he’s the last warm thing in a dying world.

Something inside me twists, sharp and deep. Not relief. Not yet.

The Capitol wants us tethered. They want us to need each other so badly we stop being people and start being stories.

And now I feel it. That need. That slow, creeping fear of what I’d become if I lost him.

I didn’t just save him. I saved myself.

That’s what they want.

Chapter Text

”Do you think anyone misses them?” Peeta’s voice travels softly through out make shift camp. I frown as I pick at the wet moss beneath us while refusing to look at the announcement on the dark sky.

I think of their deaths. One silent. One loud. District Seven, gone.

”Maybe. For a little while.” I say quietly after a long silence. It feels rotten. I try to think of our tributes from last year but their faces barely registered then. Even less now. I can’t remember their families either. 

I dig my fingers deeper into the moss. It's soft, but damp with a cold that clings.

"I hate the silence after,” Peeta says. “It makes it feel like none of it mattered.”

I glance at him. His face is shadowed by the crook of the branch above, but I can see the tightness in his jaw. Not anger. Just the effort it takes to keep feeling.

“The silence is the point,” I say. “They want us to forget. To move on to the next kill.”

Peeta nods once. “Maybe. But that’s not how people are supposed to work.”

A wind moves through the upper branches like a breath no one claims. For a moment, I wonder if the tree itself remembers them. If the moss remembers the way they fell. 

He lies down, one hand resting over his chest. I stay sitting. Watching my massacre of the moss.

“Do you think anyone besides our families would miss us?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Peeta turns his head toward me. He doesn’t smile.

“I would,” he says simply.  I look away. It’s too much. Too close. Too dangerous. ”My family would move on though.” He adds. I lift my eyes to look at him. 

”Of course they would. They need you.” I want to slam my own palm against my face as soon as the words leave my mouth. But Peeta doesn’t seem to take offense. 

”No they don’t. No one needs me like that. Not like your family needs you.” Peeta’s gaze is intense as he speaks, never leaving my face. I frown at his statement. 

”I do.” My voice soft, almost delicate. ”I need you.” Of course I do, without him there is no going home. He needs to live. 

Peeta gives me a sad smile but doesn’t argue. 

”How are your hands?” I’m thankful for the change of topic. I look down at my wounded palms. Ruined. Definitely scarring. 

”They’re not too bad.” I say but my words don’t carry much weight when I wince as I grab the sleeping bag. Peeta gives me a worried frown. 

”There is probably something in the first aid kit.” Peeta starts pulling out the big back pack but I shake my head. 

”No we shouldn’t waste it on this when there might be other… you know, bigger wounds later.” The words leave a bad taste and Peeta remains quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time. 

”You need your hands to climb Katniss.” My name on his tongue is uttered like a delicate song, afraid if sung to loudly it might lose its meaning. I sigh. He is right. 

I present my hands to him like a gift, and huff in annoyance as he bandages them carefully. ”There, good as new.” He gives me a satisfied smile. I raise my eyebrow at the lumpy bandaging. My mother would be appalled. But Peeta’s satisfied smile is boyish I don’t have the heart to critique him.

”Thanks.” I mumble. 

My throat is parched even though we drank from the waterfall earlier. Big gulps that hurt my throat. I take the empty canister and fill it. Then I squeeze into the sleeping bag. The moss beneath us is almost like a soft cushion. 

”We should stay here.” Peeta whispers softly, his breath moving along my neck unintentionally. I shiver. 

”We can’t,” I say simply. ”I don’t think Haymitch was the only mentor to advice their tributes to find water. Someone will find us.” 

Peeta sighs into the quiet night. The sloshing of the waterfall only heard in this zone of the tree. But that is enough. 

”Fine.” 

The night is dark. My last though before I fall asleep is a wish for mercy from the Gamemakers that we’ve performed enough for them today. 

I wake instantly. Peeta’s not in the sleeping bag, but I spot him easily, exactly seven feet away, washing his hands in the waterfall.

He looks up as soon as my eyes find him, as if something inside him knew.
“Good morning.”

I mumble a reply and begin to pack. Frustration builds. I can’t reach our backpacks.
“Can you move closer?” I snap.

Peeta sees the problem and hurries to help.
“Yeah, sure.”

He has everything packed before I’ve finished rolling the sleeping bag.

“We should move down,” I say.

Peeta raises his eyebrows at my contradicting directions. I point up towards the thinning branches, still gigantic, but not really big enough to run if anyone comes. They also look like they provide less shelter. 

”Right.” Peeta nods but I can see that he doesn’t entirely understand. ”But if we move down to where we were before, we risk running into someone.” 

I nod in agreement. We can’t return. ”We should try the back of the tree. And probably better our camouflage.” It was washed away in the rain yesterday. 

We start climbing as the sun reaches a higher point on the sky. Moving downwards proves just as difficult as moving up. Peeta moves first, much to my chagrin but I couldn’t argue the logic in his statement. If I fall, he’ll catch me. If I fall, well, my hands couldn’t hold him again right now. 

After a while of climbing laterally, the bark starts changing to a darker color. Rot. It peels from our hands, making climbing harder. Something yeasty penetrates my nostrils and swirls around us. 

”Maybe we should stop here for a rest.” I yell to Peeta. He nods and moves towards the nearest branch. The branch is entangled with other branches, limiting visibility greatly. 

I haven’t released my anchor from the trunk when I land on the branch. Insects swirl around us, making it clear that we cannot stay here long term. I’m just about to ask Peeta for the water from the big backpack that rests against the trunk when I hear it. I grip my knife. Beside me, Peeta holds the spear, but his grip is shaky.

The whispering stops.

“Don’t move any closer,” a male voice warns. I still can’t see them.

“We won’t. We’ll leave,” Peeta says calmly.

I glance toward a hollow in the branches, suspecting that’s where they’re hiding.

District Ten climbs out on shaky legs. Why not stay hidden? Why not let us leave? But would I trust someone else to do as they said? Probably not. My mouth grows dry and and blood pools out my limbs. 

”It’s Twelve.” The boy mutters. 

”They’re going to kill us.” 

”I promise you we won’t.” Peeta’s voice carries like echo and I flinch. 

”Shut the fuck up Twelve.” The female tribute snaps. I raise my eyebrows as Peeta raises his hands, one still holding the spare to do what I assume would be a mock surrender. But the agitated girl screams violently and starts running towards Peeta. Her anxious and hesitant partner runs with her, forced to give her space to attack. 

I cast a panicked gaze at Peeta and see it clearly. He won’t be able to kill her. Using his strength on someone so much weaker than him. His eyes betray him. I grip my knife tightly. 

”There is no difference.” Gale’s voice echoes in my head as I move on instinct. The girls own weapon grace my forearm but I barely feel it. Her eyes are wide, like the deers I so rarely get to hunt back home. 

Her partner does nothing, stands shaking like a leaf a safe distance away. 

We grapple but she gets away and moves towards Peeta with her knife. She is surprisingly fast. And I do the only thing I can think of. 

The canon booms. She falls, and my knife sticks out of her back. I stare at her with wide eyes.

”Oh no.” It’s quiet, drowned out by the canon that comes right after. The boy falls too. I still move. I make sure they aren’t breathing. I move towards the knife in her back. 

She wasn’t a threat anymore. Neither of them were. And still, I can’t breathe. I want to throw the knife, but I can’t unclench my hand.

I move, checking if they’re breathing. They’re not.

I retrieve my knife. My hand trembles, but I can’t let go.

Peeta is crouched beside me now. I don’t remember him moving. He doesn’t say thank you. Just looks at her, then me. There’s something like guilt in his eyes. Or grief. Maybe both.

“I could’ve stopped her,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret confession. “But I didn’t want to hurt her.”

I look at their bodies. There is a difference. One so heavy, not even the Gamemakers do anything to fix the silence. The bugs aren’t buzzing, the wind is still. 

I look at the boy. He didn’t even do anything. He didn’t try to hurt us, he didn’t try to intervene. He just died. Somewhere in District Ten his parents are wailing while my family releases sighs of relief. Until they realize I’m now a murderer. What will they think of me now? Do they think the price is worth it?

”They probably wan’t to collect the bodies.” I say, my voice detached and not my own. Peeta opens his mouth but I start looking around to gather our things. And then-

”Peeta, where is our bag?” The big backpack is missing. Peeta throws his head around frantically. I walk slowly towards the edge of the branch carefully. Shit. 

”How could you loose the bag?” My accusation isn’t logical. It isn’t fair. Peeta looks hurt but doesn’t defend himself which makes it worse. 

”We can find more food. More water.” He states but I shake my head. I have no bow, and we can’t risk the climb to our waterfall branch again. We barely survived it the first time. 

I grab the small bag forcefully and rummage around for the snare line. I’m not as good as Gale, but it’s our best hope right now. I work in silence. These part of the tree is dead though. What animals would live here? Nothing that is edible. 

The tributes from Ten didn’t have anything except another knife. How did the survive this long? 

We sit in quiet as the claw collects them. The sky has gone dark, and our only sleeping bag is gone. 

We huddle together in the crevice that the other tributes – the tributes I killed – used. I refuse to look at the sky when the announcement is on. Afterwards, the silence is deafening. 

Peeta’s voice comes out, soft and embracing. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.” It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either.

When he moves closer, I don’t stop him. I just close my eyes and lean against him like it means nothing even as my hands won’t stop trembling.

Chapter Text

We're down to our last drops of water. The little bit of food we had we ate hours ago. Somewhere two canons sound. Did I imagine it?

Peeta says he heard them but I’m not sure. Who was it? That’s twelve dead. Half left. What killed them? Who?

”That must be some kind of record.” Peeta whispers. I’m not sure he’d manage much else. I don’t even raise my eyebrows. Too much effort. My head just turns slightly in his direction. 

”Only twelve in four days.” He clarifies. There is no amusement, no satisfaction that we’re a little more close to home. Only a sad statement. 

Has it only been four days? It feels like more. 

”Better them than us.” I say but the words taste like ash in my mouth. Peeta’s jaw tighten but he doesn’t argue. He knows I’m right. 

We’re close. There is no warmth here except for body heat. My head is spinning. I’ve gone days without food, but never without water. We’re to weak to risk a climb but these parts of the tree are dead. Not to mention what kind of horrible creatures that might be lurking in the dark. The fungi is heavy in the air, and doesn’t help with the confusion. I fear it might even be slightly hallucinating. 

If someone finds us right now, we’re dead. But who in their right mind would stop here? Nothing can stay alive here. Haymitch must be having a panic attack right now. I picture him using his most colorful swearwords and throwing bottles at the wall. 

”Sorry Haymitch.” I say into the air. Maybe they’ll show us one more time, when we die. Even if it’s not a good show. 

Peeta snorts. ”He’s probably screaming at us from wherever he is.” He says. I almost laugh. 

”When I imagined my death, it was never like this.” I say softly. The words slip out before I can stop them. I glance at Peeta again. ”I’m sorry I never repaid you for the bread.” 

Peeta shakes his head. ”I should’ve given it too you. Not thrown it like to an animal.” His voice is forceful. As forceful as he can manage most likely. I shake my head. 

”You saved us.” I cough. ”Gave me hope.” The last part is barely audible but I can tell he hears it by the shaking intake of breath. Peeta holds me tighter. It’s for warmth. It’s cold. We’ve spent the entire day sitting here, not coming up with any ideas to further our own survival. 

”I should’ve done more.” His breath washes over my face. It smells in that way a dry mouth does. Mine probably isn’t any better. Why are our noses almost touching?

”You did enough. More than anyone else.” He’s too close. Why is he so close?

Because you moved toward him, idiot.

No. That’s not true. I wouldn’t...

But I did. 

His mouth is on mine before I can think. Lips dry and cracked. Mouths dry and dehydrated. Warm. It doesn’t feel good or bad. Just real. Just something. 

When he pulls back, his forehead stays against mine. Neither of us speaks. Maybe if I don’t say it out loud, it doesn’t mean anything.

My hand is still clutching his shirt. When did that happen?

“Katniss,” he whispers, and I feel the word more than I hear it. Like a finger against a bruise.

I shake my head, just once. Don’t make this real. 

I don’t say that. I just press my face into the hollow of his shoulder, and let the silence fall again.

Outside, the arena groans. Somewhere in the distance, a cannon fires. And then another. Fourteen. 

I fall asleep to the rhythm of Peeta’s heartbeat. When I wake, it’s still there. Still beating. But is it my imagination, or is it slower?

“Peeta?” I shake him gently. He groans, face pale and drawn. Panic stabs through me.

I look around desperately. Something silver catches my eye – a parachute. The glint of it feels almost obscene against the colorless rot around us. It's just far enough that I can’t reach it unless Peeta moves.

I shake him harder.

“What?” His voice is groggy, confused.

“Parachute.” I rasp. That gets through. He shifts with effort, and I scramble toward the gift. My hands are shaking too hard to get the container open at first. When I finally pry it apart, there are two masks, a small bottle of water, and a folded note.

You call that a kiss? – H

I huff through my nose, not quite a laugh. Peeta’s watching me with a question in his eyes. I hesitate. Then hand him the note.

He reads it. I can’t read the expression on his face. He just snorts and tosses it aside. I shrug.

We split the water carefully. Not too fast. Just enough to soothe the fire in our throats and chase the fuzz from our minds.

“These must’ve cost a fortune,” Peeta says, examining one of the masks.

“We have some generous sponsors,” I reply flatly, already fitting mine to my face.

The effect is almost immediate. My head clears. The oppressive weight pressing behind my eyes lifts. The ground feels slightly more solid beneath me.

Peeta puts his on too. 

For the third time I tell Peeta we need to move and he agrees. Anywhere but here. 

When we climb, we head back toward familiar territory. The risk of encountering other tributes is worth the chance of more water. Despite the exhaustion clawing at my limbs, the climb is easier than yesterday. The farther we get from the rotten part of the tree, the more the sun cuts through the haze. Soon, sweat is soaking my shirt, trickling down my back.

We’re still wearing our masks, not able to remove them when climbing. We edge sideways, past the unreachable branch with the waterfall. If there was one, maybe there are more. The branch we settle on is the largest yet, wide enough to feel almost like ground. A shallow pond glimmers in its center, surrounded by tufts of moss and the hum of life. The contrast to the death-soaked branch we just left is almost grotesque. 

If I set up a snare here, I would most likely catch something. But a fire would be suicide. The image of blood dripping from bark flashes in my mind. Maybe there is some fish in the pond that can be eaten raw. 

A small formation of rocks lies beside the water. Shelter. Peeta moves toward the pond eagerly, but I stop him with a hand on his chest.

I don’t let him drink until I see a squirrel approach the water and lap it up, unharmed.

Water sloshes in my stomach and my head feels completely clear for the first time in a day. But I refuse to think about the kiss. Even now, remembering it makes me want to curl into myself and vanish. I don’t know what it meant, or why it felt like both nothing and everything. I don’t want to know.

Peeta camouflages us again, this time to look like the rocks. By now I’ve been both a tree and a rock. Still better than some tribute parade outfits certain years. 

”They have to be around here somewhere. I spotted them earlier.” An unmistakable voice says. I cast a panicked look at Peeta and we hurriedly scramble towards the rocks. We’re invisible as long as no one tries to step on us. 

“I’m telling you, it was them.”

A second voice, doubtful. “Could’ve been anyone.”

The sound of bodies bumping. Someone shoves someone else.

“I saw her.”

Her. Me.

A cold weight settles in my stomach.

“Maybe we should rest,” someone else mutters. “We’ve been hunting all night.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so useless with a weapon.”

A mocking snort. Another shove.

“Maybe if you didn’t whine like a little bitch-”

A slap.

“I swear, I’ll kill you when we get out of here.”

When.

Not if.

I barely let myself breathe.

They’re on our branch. I see them now, Opal and her blonde teammate. They’re arguing. And they’re alone. No sign of District Two.

On his shoulder is my bow, along with a gleaming set of arrows.

My bow.

My fingers twitch, every muscle in my body screaming to lunge, to grab, to act.

But I don’t move. Neither of us does. We lie as still as the stones around us for what feels like hours.

“Fine, we’ll rest here and meet the others down at the cornucopia later.” They say it as if the climb down isn’t several hours. But they are careers, and they have trained for this their entire lives, so for them it’s probably not as exhausting as for me and Peeta.

I hold my breath as they set up camp far too close to the pond. I’m careful not to watch them too much, lest they feel the eyes upon them. I cannot risk watching Peeta either. If I see him doing anything that might risk exposure, I might have a heart attack. I might have one anyway.

“Should I take watch?” the male says. Opal snorts.

“There is no one here. We won’t rest for long. Just shut up and don’t bother me.” I almost roll my eyes at her naiveté. At her arrogance. No wonder the career packs always end so violently.

My own repulsion at her personality clashes with my racing heart that won’t calm down. Only when I hear them snoring do I manage to breathe properly.

I look at Peeta. What do we do?

He raises his eyebrows and then frowns. I look between him and the bow. Not being able to decide the best course of action. Opal’s knives lie in a belt beside her. She’s gripping one tightly. Her partner has thrown the bow carelessly a short distance from himself, and the quiver is beside it. Idiot.

The best chance I’ll get is right in front of me. I know I can walk quietly enough. But Peeta sounds like a boar rushing through the woods when he stomps around. The branch isn’t covered in much moss like the others, but there is grass that dampens the sound.

Our window of opportunity shortens with every snore they release.

I gesture to the bow. Peeta shakes his head. I give him a glare and point again. He sighs soundlessly and nods once.

I hope that I haven’t just signed our death certificates with this impulsive decision.

They are slightly further away than the maximum distance for our tether. Peeta only has to take two steps for me to be able to reach.

I gesture that to him in a way he hopefully understands.

One step.

I wince, but they keep on sleeping.

Second step.

Nothing.

I start to move, as if tracking an animal. Quiet and soundless.

My feet are secure, but my hands shake as I reach for the weapon. My lifeline.

My hand closes around the bow and I remove it carefully. Still no reaction.

I reach for the quiver. Their snores almost harmonize as I sling the quiver around my shoulder.

For a moment I remain undecided about my next course of action.

There is power in my stance, and new opportunities before me.

My hand hovers, the weight of the bow suddenly heavy in my grip. I could end this quietly. It would almost be a mercy. They wouldn’t register what happened. But then what? Would I become one of them?

I glance at Peeta. He’s shaking his head softly. ”Don’t.” The word isn’t spoken, but I understand what his lips say anyway. 

There is no plan for when they wake up. Which they will soon.

There is a branch above us that is reachable if we move further down our current one.

I point up and then opposite from the trunk.

Peeta nods.

We move quietly. The further we get from them, the faster we move. The less quiet.

When we reach a reasonable distance, we haul ourselves up.

Peeta frowns in disagreement as I urge him to move so we lie above them, watching.

Right now, they cannot see us. From where we’re at, they cannot jump up and reach us either.

If they try to run to where the distance between our branches is less, I’ll shoot them.

I remove an arrow from the quiver.

The smooth coldness of the metal is a balm for my hands.

I string the bow and aim.

For the first time since I’ve been here, my breath is composed and steady. Like when I hunt back home, the only sound I hear is that of my own breath.

Inhale. Exhale.

My focus remains unrelenting. There’s no way for me to tell how well Peeta is sheltered from potential knives. I can kill Opal before she has time to throw. But if I miss a single moment, if she manages to throw a knife, it’s over.

One second, everything is calm. Birds fly overhead, singing a song I’ve never heard before. A squirrel dances up along the trunk.

The next second. Chaos.

“Where the hell is my bow?” The blonde hair of the District One male glistens in the sun. It’s far too white and cold, hair too straight and perfect.

Beside me, Peeta takes a sharp breath, and my heart stops.

“You.”

If malice had a face, Opal’s would be it. Even through the camouflage, she sees me. I see her hand twitch toward her belt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warn, keeping my voice calm, even as tension coils in my spine. It sounds steadier than I feel. Her hand pauses mid-reach, but her eyes blaze with stubborn defiance.

She scoffs. “You don’t even know how to use that thing.”

Her voice is full of mockery, like I’m nothing more than a joke. A rabbit holding a predator’s weapon.

“I got an eleven. You can probably guess how,” I reply evenly. “Must be humiliating to get beaten by an outlying district.”

I don’t know why I’m taunting her. Maybe it’s the weight of the past few days. Days of running, hiding, surviving. Maybe I need to prove something. To the viewers. To Peeta. To myself.

Opal’s jaw clenches. The rage simmering behind her eyes could boil stone.

I try to tell myself that if she throws the first punch, then killing her won’t be murder. It’ll be survival. Maybe that’s why I’m provoking her. Because we need them gone in order to win. But how can I live with taking any more lives? What pieces of me will be left to return home?

“I’ll gut you like the mutt you are, Girl on fire.” 

Her partner cuts her off, raising both hands in a quick, pacifying gesture.

“We’ll go, okay? We’ll leave, and you can keep the bow.” His voice is calm. Measured. Practiced, maybe. A career who knows when they’ve been outmaneuvered.

I don’t look at Peeta, but I can feel what he’s thinking. He doesn’t want to kill them. Neither do I. But they’ll be back. And next time, there will be no warnings.

I’ve already killed once. In self-defense. What’s one more time?

But it wouldn’t be self-defense now. Not really. They’re offering a way out.

“Leave your bags and your weapons, and you can go,” I say coldly.

“We won’t kill you if you leave,” Peeta adds, voice firm but not cruel.

For a moment, it seems like we’ve avoided bloodshed.

Then Opal’s eyes flash, and I know.

She moves.

My arrow flies before I have time to think. It strikes her hand mid-motion – her throwing hand. The knife clatters to the branch below, and she screams. Blood pours between her fingers.

I already have another arrow notched before the sound dies in her throat.

“We won’t warn you again,” I say, my voice sharp and detached. The confidence I wear like armor now feels like paper.

Opal wails, high and furious. She grips the arrow and snaps it in two, an incredible feat, considering the material. Primrose, watching from home, must be terrified.

“I’ll kill you,” Opal hisses. Her voice is venom. “You worthless rats.”

“You should go,” Peeta says, louder now. His voice trembles slightly. He’s trying to sound stronger than he feels. I understand.

District One throws down their supplies and moves toward the trunk. I let out a shaky breath.
They’re leaving. We’re alive.

“That was…” Peeta starts, not needing to finish.

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling the last of my tension.

Then a scream shatters our fragile relief.

Opal. She’s struggling to climb with her injured hand. I watch as she tries and fails to anchor herself. Blood slicks the hook, and her grip falters.

She falls.

The tether snaps.

We move instinctively, but it’s too late. There’s nothing we can do.

She drops from the branch, vanishing into the abyss below. The time between her fall and her cannon blast feels like eternity.

I look up. My eyes meet his for the briefest moment before the blast. The last thing he sees is my horrified expression.

My breath catches.

I didn’t shoot her in the heart.

But my arrow still killed her.

Chapter Text

Sixteen dead. We’re down to the final eight.

District Two.
District Five.
District Eleven.
And District Twelve.

We’re all that’s left.

I can’t remember all their names. I hate that. Faces blur, even the ones I looked straight in the eye as they died. I try to summon them just to prove that they mattered, but they vanish behind the sound of that infernal cannon.

Back home, they’re conducting the interviews with our families. I imagine Prim and my mother sitting in their finest clothes in our small house, being filmed by Capitol people dressed in ostentatious outfits. Peacekeepers surrounding the house to make sure no one tries anything.

What are they saying about me? Are they telling the Capitol how proud they are? And Gale, are they interviewing him? I hope he controls himself. I hope he understands what’s at stake. But he can’t. Not really. How could he, when he has never left District Twelve? When he has never been here, when he hasn’t ever killed? He can’t understand.

My eyes fall on Peeta. What is his family saying about him? I imagine his mother portraying a role she’s never been very good at—a loving mother. Now that I know more about him than I ever thought I would, what would I have said? That he is kind and gentle. That how someone like that has survived this long is beyond me. That I hope he wins.

There is a difference between imagining sitting back home and rooting for him, and being here with him. There is an obligation here. Not just from me to Prim, but from me to Peeta.

I turn to the sky where the glaring announcement just ended. What would their families have said about them? Would District One praise them for their bravery and sacrifice? Their families aren’t saying anything. They’re getting their son and daughter home in boxes to be forgotten.

The Capitol won’t remember their sacrifice. Once a tribute is dead, they don’t care. Maybe they care about the money they lose, but they don’t care about the life that won’t continue. And why would they? We’re animals to them.

“I’m so tired.” Peeta is leaning against one of the stones by the pond. We haven’t left. There’s no reason to. The blood on the bark isn’t reason enough to climb. It wouldn’t matter if it was.
I hum in reply. I’m tired too. But I can’t sleep.

“You can sleep if you want,” I say softly. “You should sleep.”

Peeta’s worried frown glows in the darkness. “What about you?”
I shake my head. “I can’t.” It’s a whisper. It feels forbidden, admitting weakness in a place that feeds on it.

He inches closer and I don’t move away. I should. But the warmth he offers makes me feel something other than cold.

It takes so much effort to keep feeling. To not shut down. To not become my mother.

His fingertips graze my jaw. I close my eyes to stop myself from seeing, as if blindness might soften the shame of the need.

He drags his fingers to the place where my neck meets my shoulder and I shiver. But I’m not cold. Not in this moment.

My lips part, but no words come out. Do I want this? Do I want him? It has to be the warmth. It has to be.

Peeta doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His fingers keep moving, light, tentative, almost reverent. I let them. Not because I want softness. Not because I want him.
Because I want to feel something.

His hand brushes the hollow of my throat. I swallow, hard. My body is tense, wired tight like a trap, but I don’t stop him. If he asks for permission, I might have to say no. So he doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer.

The world beyond the pond is silent. The trees, the sky, even the Capitol’s ever-watching eyes—they’ve gone still. Or maybe I just can’t hear them over the sound of my own breath. Heavy. Shallow. Measured like every breath costs something.

I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see his face. If I do, I’ll start thinking again. About what this means, what it doesn’t. About who we are outside of this skin and heat and hush. And that’s too dangerous. Thinking makes it real.

He leans in, forehead resting against mine. His breath is warm. Too warm. It cracks something in me.

I reach for him, not gently. Not sweetly. My hand finds his arm, grips tight, as if anchoring myself to the present moment will keep me from vanishing into the dark.

I hate how badly I need this. I hate that the alternative is nothing.

This isn’t love. This isn’t even want.
It’s refusal. Refusal to go numb. Refusal to disappear.

My lips meet his in a furious kiss. I don’t know if I kissed him, or if he reached for me. But it doesn’t matter when the warmth overtakes whatever thought I had. There is a difference between this kiss and the one from yesterday. Yesterday was short, dry, and smelled. This kiss is warm, tastes like water, and feels everlasting. Is that good or bad?

I grip the back of his neck and pull him closer. How much closer can he be? How much closer do I want him? This furious need that keeps building feels like it won’t ever go away. When did I let it go this far? This is too far. Peeta knows it too.

“Katniss—” He breaks the kiss breathlessly. I shake my head. Don’t say anything. I meet his eyes. And I revert. I won’t acknowledge whatever this is. Was.

His fingers tremble slightly around my waist. I don’t remember them moving there. I don’t remember feeling him pull me so close. I just remember being there.

His breath hitches, the space between us thick and heavy, but the silence hangs longer than words ever could.
When I turn around, I feel cold again. I took the warmth without thinking if he needed more. I just took.

I stabbed the girl from Ten. Took her life. The boy too. And then I shot an arrow at Opal, and she slipped. I took her life and her partner’s too. And then I took the warmth from Peeta, not caring who saw or what he wanted after.

I keep telling myself that this is all for Prim. That I need to survive for her. But what is surviving if my soul never leaves this arena?

There isn’t space for doubt. I cannot afford moments like these.

We’ve come this far. I walk the path of destruction. There is no turning back. Eight of us remain. Only two make it out. And I’m going home.

There is something in the air the next morning. Something dry and dusty. The grass beneath us has turned yellow, as grass does late in the summer when the sun has shone for a month straight.

The tree doesn’t sway. The leaves don’t ruffle.

“Peeta,” I whisper. He wakes instantly. Like I do now. Has the arena changed him too?
“Something is off.”

He frowns. Looks around. Looks at me, intently and with purpose that makes my stomach turn. “What do you mean?”

I bury the feeling. “Look at the pond.” I say. It’s empty. They want us to leave. We haven’t had one day of rest since we came here. Not a single day has passed without someone dying.

Unease settles over Peeta’s face. His gentle features mash with confusion and fear. I don’t want to leave either. My body is exhausted, my limbs unsteady.

“Do we have water?”
I nod. Enough for a while, but not enough to stay for long. I look towards the bloody bark.

“I have this feeling,” I start. But there isn’t time to finish. Oh the irony. How the viewers must laugh now.

Fire.

It’s not natural. There is no spark. Just a blaze.

“PEETA!” I scream as the branch above ours lights up. I look down. The fire is above us.

We scramble over our supplies. I yell at Peeta for the masks. Maybe they’ll help. Maybe they won’t. There is no time to consider.

We run towards the trunk, and this time I don’t pay the blood a second look.

“I can’t get the anchor to hook!” Peeta yells from below me. I cast him a panicked look.

“Try harder!” I yell back. I can’t move until Peeta does, and the flame is coming closer. We need to go down. Fast.

I hear his groan of relief as it anchors.

We climb. The flame moves faster than we do, and our metal hooks make my hands blister from how warm they become.

“Move faster!” I scream as the flames lick the top of my head. I duck and my eyes water in the smoke. Peeta climbs faster. As fast as possible. We move further and further down.

I hear screaming. My heart races so fast it stops feeling like separate beats. Just one long, unbroken note of panic. I don’t see who they are, but they are headed the same way we are. There is no other way.

I look down. The fire’s not just climbing. It’s closing in from the sides. Like arms reaching, pulling, herding.

Herding us.
All of us. Toward one place.

The Cornucopia.

“Peeta, they’re herding us!” I scream.
I hear him swear from below.

My bow is safe on my back, as is my quiver. Peeta has a spear strapped to his back, and a long knife attached to his leg that we got from District One. But my weapon isn’t for close combat, and Peeta isn’t violent.

There is no way of surviving this fire, except to flee it. And there is nowhere to flee except where we’re going.

We’re going to face everyone down there.

My hands are badly burned but I don’t feel any pain.

One step. Breathe. Another step. Breathe.

The Cornucopia etches closer.

District Five is right beside us now. They’re badly burnt and struggle to grip the bark. I don’t care. Not now. We’re climbing faster.

“Peeta, we need to jump!” I yell as we etch close enough to the most ground-like place in the entire arena. Five days ago, we fled from here. Now we’re fleeing to it. We fled through green. We return to ash.

I release my anchor and prepare to jump. As soon as I see Peeta let go, I let go. For a moment I feel the tether release. It’s free, it’s unburdened. But then it snaps in place and there is no time to think.

We run.

To our left, District Five has reached the ground. In front of us I see District Eleven on top of the Cornucopia. District Two is nowhere to be seen, but I prepare for them. I string my bow, and Peeta grabs the long knife in a shaking grip.

For a long moment we all stand without moving. District Two exits from inside the Cornucopia.

Of course the Capitol wouldn’t skip it. They wouldn’t let us off the hook.

The bloodbath that wasn’t is coming.

This is the beginning of the end.