Chapter 1: Baby Sister Reaped

I stride into the Hob, my game bag over my shoulder. I make a beeline for Greasy Sae's stall. She is one of my customers who is reliably easy-going on pricing for my kills - amicability that is needed especially on a day like today.

"I have about a half dozen squirrels," I tell the old woman, dumping my bag on the counter. "I'm sorry, Sae - in a bit of a rush this morning."

She gives me a toothy grin. "As are we all, dearie. I'll give you ten coins for the lot." She names her price without even looking in the bag.

I smile. "Done. You're the best, Sae!"

"Anytime, girl child. Now you run along home and get ready with your mama and sister. Be sure to wear something pretty!"

I turn away, not acknowledging her last comment. The thought of getting dressed up for anything - let alone such a disgusting event like the Reaping - leaves me sour. I have never been the type of girl that adores pinning up her hair and wearing frilly dresses. Even so, in something as plain as my father's hunting jacket and my signature braid down my back, I am more than aware of the attention I am receiving from all the men in the District. I can even hear them whispering.

"There goes the oldest Everdeen girl," one miner whispers.

"Yes, and in this town, she certainly is quite the Beauty," remarks the butcher. "Really resembles her mother."

My eyes narrow slightly at the gossip. What do these men think they are after? Besides the fact that most of them are older and long married, they have to at least suspect my lack of interest in boys or any sexual relations in general. Except for Gale, my long time hunting partner (and very platonic!) friend, I have never been seen with any man.

As I am leaving the Hob, I see the baker's oldest sons - Leven and Rye Mellark - entering with a knapsack of bread. In fact, I nearly crash into the pair. Rye smiles at me, looking me up and down.

"Whoa there, darling! Wouldn't want you to ruin your pretty little head on a day like the Reaping!"

I nearly gawk at him. Did he just call me pretty?

"Yeah, no doubt you'll wow us in whatever you'll wear later!" Leven chuckles, brushing his hand down my one sleeve. I may not have any experience in the realm of romance, but I know damn well when a guy is flirting with me! Even when it has not happened that often.

"Now, now, Leven!" Rye chortles. "You know as well as I do this little lady's already spoken for."

I scoff a little and push past them, hurrying up the path. What did they mean by that? They couldn't know about that one time the milkman's son - a hulking man already in his late thirties - came to call and straight up asked for my hand in marriage. When I was only fourteen. Mother threw him out of the house.

I guess I have to amend my earlier statement: I have not been hit on often by guys who could reasonably be considered my peers.

I despise Reaping Day. That one day a year when I have to dress up in an borrowed blue relic from my mother's Merchant days and be paraded around in it through the District Square for a couple of hours. Like a pig getting dressed for slaughter.

Because that's what the Reaping really is. Standing in the hot sun for hours, with no shade or cool drinks, waiting for two little names to be called. And praying your name is not one of them. Not one of the names that will be sent to almost certain death in the Hunger Games.

As punishment for the twelve Districts's long-ago uprising against the Capitol, an event known as the Hunger Games was created. It is a tournament in which every District offers up one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen; these 24 tributes are then trapped inside a wild arena and are forced to fight to the death. The last tribute standing alive wins and becomes a Victor, a mentor for their home District's future tributes the next year and into perpetuity.

Mayor Undersee begins by reciting the events that led up to the Dark Days. As I do every year, I tune this part out. It's not really important, and the dinky little narration video that plays along comes off as cheesy. I know it all by heart, anyhow.

Then the Mayor reads off the names of past District 12 Victors. This is the 74th year of our country's sick death match. And in the 73 years preceding that, we have had exactly two Victors. Two. Total. Only one is still alive. Our people bow their heads in respect for the first - Duke Vedaldi, Victor of the 13th Hunger Games. He was dead before I was born - gone for two decades, at least. Then there is Haymitch Abernathy, Victor of the 50th Hunger Games. Unfortunately, he's very much alive - a state of being made all too painfully clear when, upon the mention of his exalted name, he stands and tries to give our Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, a hug. Of course he would be wasted out of his mind on alcohol. He always is.

Once Peacekeepers have managed to pull Haymitch together, Effie begins her selection of the tributes, starting with the Girls Reaping Bowl. I barely have time to hold my breath before -

"Primrose Everdeen!"

My face goes limp in utter disbelief. My baby sister's name was one teeny tiny slip of paper in thousands - thousands! - and she's Reaped. At only the tender age of twelve.

I watch, almost in slow motion, as my sister steps out of her place and begins her long walk down the center aisle to the steps of the Justice Building, to death. I have to stop this! But before I can form words, open my mouth to speak, I feel a hand on my arm. I look to see Gale shaking his head in my direction. My throat stops working. By the time it returns to normal, it is too late - Prim has mounted the stage. The time for volunteering is past.

Effie moves on to the Boys. I can only watch numbly as she calls out: "Peeta Mellark!"

Peeta Mellark!

Not him. Not Rye and Leven's little brother; my classmate in school. But it is all too true as he joins Prim onstage and wordlessly shakes her hand. He will be pitted against my precious little sister to fight to the death.

Mother and I are the first ones in line to see the tributes. I am shocked at how many people wait behind us; seeing our good-as-dead tributes off is an optional endeavor - one that most people don't embark on. It only makes me appreciate just how many of our neighbors adore Prim, the Healer's daughter. Though I am sure there are a smattering of supporters for Peeta as well.

Being first in line, and family besides, the Peacekeepers let us right into Prim's holding room. The door has barely closed behind us before I am on my knees, Prim wrapped in my arms.

"I... I was ready to volunteer for you, but... but Gale wouldn't let me!" I sob.

"Oh, don't say such things, Katniss!" Prim hiccups. "You know I would have been devastated if you did!"

I pull back to get a good view of her. "You have to win. You understand me? You have to come home to me!"

She sniffles. "I'll try."

Pulling a small golden pendant out of my pocket, I fasten it to her dress. "I got this for you in the Hob today. It's a Mockingjay pin. As long as you have it, nothing bad will ever happen to you. I promise." I kiss her forehead tenderly.

Unable to withhold my already fragile emotions, I leave the room to give Mother and Prim some time alone. I pull the frayed, green handkerchief out of my pocket and dab at my eyes with it. As I wander the narrow hallway in a fog, I bump into a burly man with a kind face.

The Baker. No doubt he's just come back from saying goodbye to his son. "Is your mother still in there with the little one?" he unexpectedly asks.

I nod.

"I'll wait, then." And he strides past me to take a place in line.

I am floored, to say the least. I have only ever traded with the Baker; he always pays a good price for my squirrels. What would behoove him to go visit my sister, when he has a much stronger stake in these Games?

This gives me an idea. Feeling as though I owe the Baker, I decide to return the favor. Besides, I have a whole other reason to want to see his youngest son.

I dodge past the Baker's bitch of a wife, no doubt searching for her husband. She doesn't appear to notice me, thankfully. Rye and Leven emerge from behind a door as I approach, also bustling past. No doubt they just parted with their brother. With no one else in line, I am ushered right in.

Peeta Mellark sits on a plush seat by the window. His eyes widen when they meet mine, and he awkwardly stands.

"What are you doing here?"

Seeing him, knowing what he represents and what he potentially could become, fills me with deep anger. I know it is irrational to blame someone strictly on circumstances outside of their control, but my sister is being sent to her likely death. And whether either one of us knows it or not, Peeta will have a hand in that fate. So thinking, I stalk forward and seize the fabric of Peeta's shirt in my fists. He tenses immediately, his eyes widening like that of my prey just before a kill.

"Now, you listen to me, Peeta Mellark," I snarl. "You will swear to me, here and now, that you will protect my sister in that arena. Because if you don't, or you kill her, and then have the audacity to come back alive -" I lean in real close. "I will make you wish you had died in there. Do you understand me?"

Peeta's head bobs up and down almost frantically, like a broken bobble-head toy. "Yes, Katniss! I believe you! Whatever you say!"

"Promise me!" I growl, bunching up his shirt more in my grip. "I want to hear you promise!"

"I promise!" Peeta gets out, terrified. "You know I would never hurt you!"

I have no idea why this boy thinks I would presume to know such a thing - he doesn't even know me! But then, Peeta says the one thing I had hoped he would not bring up:

"I would only ever help you, Katniss. I helped you with the bread."

The bread. That cursed bread he burned when we were 11 and took a vicious beating from his mother for, only to toss it to me - lying half-dead in the rain outside his door. The bread that has kept me prisoner under something like a life debt, thanks to my strict adherence towards owing those who are merciful to you.

The concept of still owing this boy my life - and for five years, no less! - angers me even more. What could I possibly give him in return to equal my continued existence on this Earth? A thought bursts into my head unannounced.

"Where's your token?" I demand, too sharply. I remember the pin I gave to my sister.

A still frightened Peeta splutters like a fish out of water. "I... I don't..."

"Your family didn't give you one?"

"No."

My face hardens, the injustice of Peeta not receiving a goodbye gift from his family adding fuel to my rage. "Here! Here's your damn token!" Seizing his neck in one hand, I pull him down to me and fiercely crash my lips against his.

My kiss is more than just a token. It's a thank you, really - and though a deeply uncharacteristic one, it is long overdue. A thank you for the bread that saved my life.

As my mouth assaults Peeta's, I slip my green handkerchief into his free hand. There! I have now endowed him with a tangible token and an intangible one. He and Prim are now equal - at least in this respect - and I have paid my debt.

I break apart from him, release him, almost violently. The baker's son can only stare at me in stunned silence. His body all at once seems to crackle with nervous electricity, and for one terrifying moment, I wonder if he is going to swoop me into his arms and kiss me back, good and proper. Only the Peacekeepers burst in and lead me away.

A/N: If any of you have read my previous epics, like Genuine Star-Crossed Lovers or Child of the Games, you know that one of my favorite themes to play with is the depiction of Katniss as a desirable woman in her District. Think of Disney's Belle as a motif.

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