AN: It's been a while since I've read the first book, so my apologies for any inaccuracies.
30 seconds.
As the countdown begins the first thought that enters his mind is; I can't do this. Usually, Peeta Mellark is not the self deprecating type. He is confident, but no overly so. He knows his niche, he knows what he's good at and he sticks to that. This self awareness was how he knew, without a doubt, that an arena duel to the death was most definitely not his niche.
20 seconds.
He's strong, sure. But what good does that do him, ultimately? Maybe it will help him survive at first, and maybe it will help him in one on one combat. But when it comes down to it he just isn't geared to win. He is completely inept with anything resembling a weapon, and he doesn't possess a fraction of the ruthlessness that the Career Tributes seem to. As his mother often liked to boast, 'My Peeta wouldn't hurt a fly.' Before it had sounded like a compliment, now it just sounds like a death sentence. The only real skill he has going for him is his camouflage.
10 seconds.
He steps into the cylinder that is going to deliver him up to his worst nightmare, and he wishes he could see his parents one last time. Then he remembers his mother's last words to him - that District 12 might finally have a victor... in Katniss Everdeen. So instead he wishes he could talk to Katniss one last time. What if last night was the last time? He hates that possibly the last words he spoke to her were spoken out of anger. Now he is really cursing himself for never telling her how he really felt.
He ascends into the arena, and immediately his eyes search for Katniss. He finds her directly across from him. Her eyes are firmly fixed to her right. He follows her line of sight; she's staring at the bows. He looks back at her and she catches his eyes. He shakes his head resolutely. Don't do it! He wants to shout. He won't be able to handle it if she dies right off the bat, he just won't.
He looks around at his other adversaries. He knows that the Careers will go straight for the Cornucopia. He hopes that the younger, smaller tributes are smart enough not to attempt it. He gives his head a shake. Let them try and gather supplies, that way he won't have to be the one to kill them. As horrible as it sounds; he doesn't want the blood of children on his hands. Something tells him Cato and the other Careers will have no similar qualms.
The final buzzer sounds. He chances one last glance in her direction, and then he turns and he runs. Come on Katniss, run into the woods. Listen to Haymitch.
He runs, and he runs, getting as high as he can, as per Haymitch's instructions. Peeta is not one to rebel. If advice is given to him by someone who has gone through this before then he will heed it.
Finally, after what seems like days, but was really only hours, he finds a brook. He falls to his knees, heaving for air. He cups his hands together, and drinks until his throat no longer burns. The brook is small, and Peeta knows he's lucky to have stumbled upon it; there won't be many bodies of water around. The Capitol wouldn't want the tributes to be too comfortable. He takes in his surroundings, so as to remember where the brook is.
It's quiet. Almost too quiet. Like the calm before the storm. Peeta begins to feel antsy now that he is standing still. Now he wishes he had been brave enough to go for something at the Cornucopia, a canteen, a knife. Something. Anything.
The sound of canon fire shatters the utter silence. Peeta almost ducks before he remembers that this is the sound to signal the death of a tribute. He utters a silent prayer that Katniss was not one of the fallen tributes.
Peeta decides to take one more sip of water before he moves on, a decision that saves his life. He hears a whizzing noise over his head and he sees a knife careen into a tree in front of him with lethal force. Clove. Peeta remembers her from training; she was not easy to forget. Her knife throwing rivaled that of any male in the competition.
He gasps and darts behind a tree. Usually where there is one Career Tribute, 4 or 5 more are not far behind. Historically, Districts 1, 2 and 4 always form alliances, the strong against the weak. How poetic. Peeta knew he had no chance of winning, but he had thought he would at least last one night, and put up some sort of a fight. But here he was; day one, weaponless, and taking on an unknown number of Careers. A seemingly insurmountable battle for anyone.
A bow flies through the air and grazes his side; he is too wide to hide behind the slim tree. The arrow takes some of his flesh with it, and it's all Peeta can do not to cry out in pain.
His only hope now is to outrun them. So he runs; runs for his life. But the Careers are fast. Of course they are; they've been training for this their entire lives. He runs in a zigzag pattern, his only defense against the constant stream of weapons being hurled at him. Maybe they'll run out of weapons before they reach me, Peeta thinks, ever the optimist. But then he reminds himself, sardonically, that it's four, five, or six to one, and if they don't have any weapons they will surely devise a less conventional way to kill him. And won't the audience just love that.
Suddenly, the barrage of weapons ceases. Peeta is sure this isn't a good thing, as it might seem. Darkness is beginning to ascend, and he is having trouble seeing where he's going now. He glances behind him cautiously, surreptitiously, and then he goes flying. His foot must have caught a tree branch. As he is scrambling to right himself he catches a flash of silver in his peripheral vision. Instinctively he ducks, but he's not fast enough.
A hand is at his throat, holding him up against a tree. He feels the distinctive scrape of a blade pressing against his jugular vein. He gulps audibly. He hears rustling in the woods and suddenly he and his attacker are bathed in light. The Careers really must have cleaned up at the Cornucopia if they had time to grab such non essentials as flashlights. The thought makes him inexplicably, and uncharacteristically angry.
"Well, well, if it isn't lover boy." says his captor, who he now realizes is Cato from District 2.
Another voice rings out, annoyed, "Just finish him, two, we don't have time for your games."
Cato smirks. "Just having a little fun with our resident cake decorator."
Peeta gulps again. How does Cato know that? Katniss didn't tell him, did she? But how else could he have known? Peeta knows absolutely nothing of the personal lives of any of the other tributes. He feels oddly betrayed. Even though he and Katniss never spoke of any alliance, he can't believe that she would talk about him to the Careers.
"Well, lover boy, any final words?" The blade presses into his throat harder, making speech - not to mention breathing - difficult.
"Katniss," he gasps out. Not as a plea though, but an offering.
Cato stops short.
"What?" His eyes are calculating and he doesn't lower his weapon, but he hasn't killed Peeta yet, so that's a favorable sign.
"Katniss, she's rated eleven, the highest rating in the Games." Their already hostile expressions darken, and Peeta realizes it's probably not the best idea to remind them of something they already know. He charges on before he loses the attention that he somehow commanded just by uttering her name.
"I can help you find her. I know her; I know what she'll be thinking." Lies. Total and complete falsehoods. But Cato doesn't know this. And, as Peeta has found, he is a very good liar when his life depends on it.
He withdraws his sword. "You don't know how lucky you are, twelve."
Peeta knows exactly how lucky he is. If there's anything the Careers aren't, it's merciful. He knows had he been anyone else, he would be dead right now.
He wonders why they are not questioning his motives. Why they're not asking him why he would help them find the girl he is supposedly in love with. He supposes that betrayal is not something that surprises them, and probably something they are not adverse to. He will definitely have to watch his back, both literally and figuratively.
He sucks in an uninhibited breath, and then pulls himself to his feet. What did he just offer? Surely he didn't just offer Katniss up to save his own life. No, no he would never do that.
Cato grins darkly, murderously; if it is possible for one to grin murderously. Peeta gets the uncomfortable feeling that Cato is enjoying all of this.
"Now, let's go find the Girl on Fire."