Chapter 1: 75th Reaping

Katniss's POV

My mother nudges the battered old TV into the corner. The machine has seen better days, certainly, but with a few tinkerings of the antennae by Prim, it does well enough.

It has to. We very well could all be shot if the TV didn't work and we missed this mandatory programming.

This year is the 75th anniversary of the Hunger Games, a sick competition in which the 12 districts of Panem send one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 into an outdoor arena to fight to the death. The last of the 24 tributes alive wins. And every 25 years - like this year - a special edition of the Games called a Quarter Quell is held. President Snow now takes the stage on screen to perform the Reading of the Card - the announcement of this Quell's twist.

"This is the 75th year of the Hunger Games. Before we make the announcement, let us remember the Quells that came before." He recites both of the last two twists. On the 25th anniversary, the districts were made to elect their tributes. How awful. Picking the kids who had to go. For most districts, I bet that would have meant sacrificing the poorest of the poor, the undesirables, troublemakers. I wonder if the President will say who won that year, but he just continues on. On the 50th anniversary, the districts were required to send twice as many tributes. I've never been alive for a Quarter Quell. But my mother would have been for that one, probably a young teenager of Reaping age herself. As I glance to her, a dark pain flashes across her eyes, as if she is remembering a painful memory. I wouldn't be surprised if she is: the Second Quarter Quell was the last time District 12 ever produced a Victor.

A small page boy is now presenting the President with a box of envelopes, from which he selects the one emblazoned with a 75. Opening the flap, and without pausing, he reads, "On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder that rebel fathers indoctrinated their sons, the districts will send only boys." The programming abruptly ends.

My mother blandly goes to her room, and I order Prim to the bed we share soon after. I stay up a little, cleaning my hunting kills from the day and thinking about the Quell in six months time. What a boring twist. Only boys. Then again, maybe not so boring: male tributes are far more vicious in killing than the girls. At least this year, I'll be safe. And so will Prim, for only her second Reaping.

But someone will not be safe, as I drop my knife into the sink with a clatter. My best friend. My hunting partner.

Gale.

When I meet up Gale for our daily hunt on the morning of the Reaping, six months later, I do not say one word about the Quell. Mercifully, neither does he. I'm usually a very taciturn person myself; Gale understands this. He only moves me to speak as much as I need to, as much as he might need to know and nothing more. Gale gets me. He understands me. And he understands that the less we dwell on the Games today, the better off our nerves will be.

Besides, we may not have to discuss anything, if all goes well this afternoon. Nevertheless, as we part at the Seam after making our sales in the Hob, Gale cups my face in his big, calloused hands and kisses me full on the lips. I capture his lower mouth in between my own and nibble there, kissing him back. "Hmmmm..."

We break apart gently. "I'll see you soon," Gale promises - his only allusion to the event that could determine at least his fate, if not also my own. Gale and I were friends at first, finding common ground in hunting and the fact that we both lost our fathers in the same mining accident. But about a year ago, our feelings shifted. When Gale first asked me casually to dinner in the Hob, I almost completely missed a shot at the deer I was aiming for. When he kissed me, I about fainted. I had until that point vowed that I would never marry, nor birth children only to see them sent to the arena. I know all too well what it's like to lose family. But with Gale... perhaps a match made sense. A relationship between two people with a history. Who, as I said, completely understand each other.

When I arrive home, my mother nearly attacks me in her eagerness to dress me for the Quell. I indulge her, as it's about the only motherly thing she can still do. She really drew away emotionally after my father died; I mostly raised Prim.

Not that there isn't much for Mother to do. I wear the same faded blue dress to the Reaping every year. It's still about the nicest dress my mother ever owned, going all the way back to her days as a young Merchant woman. When she wed my father, a Seam miner, her family disowned her.

Mother finishes with my favorite touch: the single, simple braid running down my back. One check in the mirror, and we proceed to prepare Prim. With her blond hair that she inherited from our mother, my baby sister could still pass as a Merchant's child. I hope - I know - she will find a nice husband once she comes of age.

When the three of us arrive at the square in front of the Justice Building, the place is already bustling. My sister and I sign in with the Peacekeepers - consisting of a pinprick of blood from our fingers - before separating to stand with our respective age groups, I with the 17 year olds, she with the 13 year olds.

At precisely twelve noon, the Mayor of our district takes the stage. He begins to recite the traditional spiel about the Dark Days rebellion that birthed the Hunger Games. Then he recites the names of Past District 12 Victors. In almost three-quarters of a century, we have had a pitiful two. We bow our heads for the deceased first: Duke Vedaldi, Victor of the 13th Hunger Games. He's been gone since before I was born - a piece of trivia I learned in our Games History class in school. Mother once said he became a drug addict soon after -

"Victor of the 50th Hunger Games: Haymitch Abernathy!" Our only living relic of the arena rises staggeringly from his place of honor, then promptly tumbles headfirst off the stage. I visibly wince. Haymitch Abernathy is a paunchy, middle-aged man, possibly a peer of my mother's. He's also a drunk. I almost feel sorry for him as Peacekeepers haul him away, for with the Quell this year, he's going to get a lot more attention than he might otherwise want. And he damn sure will now after that circus act he just pulled.

Our District escort, Effie Trinket, now replaces our Mayor at the microphone. "Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

I wince at her Capitol accent, which distracts me from her selection of the first tribute from now only the single Reaping ball onstage. "Gale Hawthorne!"

I nearly topple into the girl next to me. I vaguely wonder why they even bothered to split us girls by age anyway, since none of us are eligible to be Reaped this year. Nevertheless, my breath begins to come out in rough gasps - I wonder if I am hyperventilating - as I watch my boyfriend of only a single year take the stage. His last Reaping ever, and he's picked! Odds in your favor - yeah, right! I can feel Gale's eyes seek me out as he faces his neighbors; behind their gaze lies a clear message:

Don't cry. Don't let it show until we're alone.

Effie moves right on ahead, oblivious to the emotional carnage she has wrought. "Peeta Mellark!"

My mouth now falls open as I watch a boy from my age group, with ashy blonde hair and blue eyes, take the stage. Peeta Mellark!

Oh no, I think. Not him. Unlike Gale, I hardly know him at all. Except for that one critical time... in the rain...

He threw me some bread to feed my family while we were starving. This act of kindness would eventually inspire me to hunt and forage for food. In this, Peeta Mellark has had just as much an impact on my life as Gale has.

Gale and Peeta now shake hands, prompted by Effie, before they are whisked away into the Justice Building.

The ceremony has scarcely ended before I am racing for the doors.

I am first in line before the holding room leading to my boyfriend; I even beat Gale's mother Hazellle and four younger siblings. The woman who very well could have been my mother-in-law one day does not begrudge me this. Every visitor to the tributes gets five minutes of goodbyes with them, no matter how many visitors there are. The Peacekeepers generously give as much time as it takes. And this year, I have no doubt that there will be a line going out the front doors for Gale; he has always had many friends in the Seam.

As soon as a Peacekeeper nudges me inside, I launch myself at him. Gale is still turning around from where he has been staring stoically out the window before I am kissing him. It is though I am intent of drawing the breath out of his lungs. I would rather he die here, with me, than at the hands of some stranger in the wilderness, or - God forbid! - Peeta Mellark.

Gale fiercely kisses me back. "We can't do this..." he gasps, even as I brazenly hook my leg around his thigh. "If the Capitol knew about us, they could use you to get to me!"

"I don't care," I moan bravely between kisses. "Let them do what they want with me. Just promise you'll come home!"

When we finally get a hold of ourselves, we sit and lay out final plans. I pledge that Hazellle and his siblings won't starve, getting a share of my kills. At last, the Peacekeepers drag me away from the man I love.

As I make my way down the hall, I see the Mellark family leaving another holding room. No one else waits behind them in line to see Peeta off. I bite my lip, slowing down, but none of the group sees me. Should I...? It would be my last chance...

As soon as the family leaves the Building through a door at the end of the hall, I jump to the door of Peeta's cell. The Peacekeepers seem surprised that a Seam girl wishes to speak to a Merchant, but they let me in.

Peeta is seated on a cushioned bench by the window. His eyes raise to me, and he stands up in surprise upon recognition of who it is. "What are you doing here?"

There is a momentary silence, as I attempt to get my voice to work. Why am I here? Come on, Katniss, think... Finally, I courageously give the answer that has been dogging me for the last five years.

"I never got to thank you. For the bread. I just... thank you."

Silence. I don't even know if Peeta is aware of what I am talking about, or that he would remember even if he was. Having said what I came here to say, and already embarrassed enough as it is, I awkwardly turn to leave.

"Why do you think I did it?" His voice sounds heavy, tired somehow.

So he does remember. "What?" I turn back.

"Why do you think I did it?" He repeats. His crystal-clear diction pierces me like the tips on my arrows.

"I don't know. Why did you do it?" and I am surprised to discover that a part of me actually wants to find out.

He takes a few steps towards me, eyes locked on mine, his voice earnest. "I couldn't bear to see you in that kind of pain."

I slide back from his advance. "Please don't," I practically whisper. "I... I have a boyfriend."

Peeta regards me quizzically. I want to punch myself. What a... bitchy thing for me to say! More than that, it's not even relevant to the conversation. Peeta merely said he couldn't bear to see me starve. That doesn't mean he... cares for me! Or... loves me...

"I know," Peeta says softly. Do I imagine it, or does he sound sad? Does he know that my boyfriend is going into the arena same as him?

Even if my declaration of non-availability had been relevant, I am impressed that Peeta still respects these boundaries. This makes me wonder:

"Did you have a girlfriend to see you off?"

He shakes his head. "I haven't had any girl come and see me off. Unless you count my mother, which, sorry, I don't."

I can't help my smile. The Baker's wife has quite the reputation of being a witch of a woman. There are rumors that she even beats her sons. Still, the fact that no girl other than me has braved the Justice Building for Peeta surprises me. I've seen him with no shortage of friends in school, and the girls do eye him.

No girlfriend. No girlfriend, and he's headed for death... I pity him.

I suddenly take a step forward. "Peeta, come here."

He inches closer, confused, not getting my meaning. But he's near enough for me to pull his neck down and press his lips to mine.

I pour my best acting skills, my best show of passion, into the kiss. I kiss Peeta the way I would kiss Gale. My arms wind tightly about his neck, my fingers sinking - curling - into his blonde hair. I close my eyes. I dare to moan in pleasure. "Hmmmm..."

After a moment, I feel Peeta kiss me back. His fingers run themselves through my braid, undoing it until my curls of brown hair cascade down my shoulders in waves. His hands then sweep lower, splaying across my back. They take me by my waist and pull me closer, flush against him. Finally, I feel his digits groping down around my bum, squeezing the tender flesh there through the hem of my blue dress. And then, Peeta suddenly dips me, and I let out a muffled squeal of fear. "Mmmmm!" Still, he holds me gently, continuing to pet my butt. I let him touch me, feel me up: if Peeta Mellark hasn't known the kiss of a woman, then he certainly hasn't know the body of a woman, at least in the carnal sense. He needs to feel that sensation before he dies. If this were any other situation, I would deck him if he touched me like that.

That's what I tell myself, as I now part Peeta's lips with mine, as I slip my tongue in between the split and down his throat. I'm doing this out of compassion. I know this is wrong. I know how I just said I have a boyfriend. I know that, in kissing this other man, I am not being faithful. But this kiss is to thank Peeta for the bread that saved my life. This kiss is to give him something to hang onto, in his last moments.

Besides: he is such a good kisser...

I hear footsteps approaching the door. I gently yet assertively move Peeta's hands off my ass and back up to my waist. Pushing him away as firmly as I can without being mean, his lips spring off of mine and I leap away from him. Half a second later, the door opens.

"Time's up." I am escorted out of the room, glancing back for one last look at the Baker's son - he looks stunned and perhaps... elated? - just before the door slams behind me.