My Hunger Games

by slytherincredible

I've read a few "what if Katniss had never volunteered" stories, but what if Prim had never been chosen? Please R&R and, as always, enjoy. :

I wake to the sound of my younger brother crying. I open my eyes and blink a few times as the blurry world comes in to focus. My mother is crouching down at eye-level with Ryder, her hands on his shoulders. She is speaking in a soothing tone, but I can't hear the exact words she's saying. Ryder is twelve, but he is young for his age. The hardships of living in the Seam have really taken their toll on him; the light behind his dark grey eyes is rarely on, most of the time he just looks like he's on auto-pilot. Every year on Reaping day he gets upset, he worries about me; but today is his first Reaping, so I can understand his heightened sense of fear. I remember crying all morning on the morning of my first Reaping; it never really gets easier, I just learnt to control myself better.

My mother has prepared the washtub for me to bathe in before we go to the square. Ryder is already dressed and ready, in a pair of pants my father bought specially for today, and a shirt that once belonged to him, so it falls almost down to Ryder's knees. My mother is trying to tuck it in to his pants, but Ryder is putting up a fight. The water is warm, because my mother heated it up for me; I scrub my skin until it is shiny clean, until there is no trace of the fine layer of coal dust that settles on everything in the Seam. When I get out of the tub I see my mother has laid out a pale pink dress on my bed for me, it's very beautiful, the soft fabric feels strange on my skin. My mother is a seamstress, she must have made this herself. When I am dressed in the beautiful garment, my mother plaits my hair down my back and even lets me put on a little of the lipstick she has had since she was my age. When my father gets home, he is laden with some butcher meat and two cupcakes from the bakery in town.

"How'd you afford this?" I ask in amazement. We never have butcher meat, my father spends most of his free time in the Hob, trading and bartering for goods; and I don't even remember the last time I had a cupcake.

"Never you mind that," my father says, winking at me, "just enjoy this."

As he turns his back on Ryder and I to help my mother cook the meat I see his face fall slightly. Sometimes I forget how worried the parents of the Districts get on these days. They have all passed Reaping age, obviously, but every year they are faced with the chance of sending their kids away to a certain, and brutal, death. So they do the only thing they can do, give us a good last meal, I suppose. As the cooked meat is sat in front of us I look sideways at Ryder, who is staring at the table with his lips stiff and tears dancing in his eyes. I nudge him and pass him the bigger piece of meat, this coaxes a smile out of him. Conversation over the meal is scarce, no one wanting to ruin what could possibly be the last meal we all have together. I catch my mother's eye trained on me or Ryder more than usual throughout the meal, but I don't mention anything. It isn't until my father glances at the battered clock on the wall and says, "Time to go," that my mother succumbs to the tears she's obviously been holding in.

"Mum," I say, crossing to her and giving her a quick hug, "It will be okay. Ryder's name is only in once. He'll be fine,"

She returns the pressure, I feel her fingers dig in to the material of my dress as she replies, "What about you, Pandora? Your name is in there twenty-five times! You should never have taken out that tesserae –"

I break away from her hug and give her the sternest look I can manage. When my father was struck ill two years ago he was unable to work for nearly eight months. My mother's seamstress business wasn't enough to support us, so I took out the tesserae to feed our family. It's something my mother has had trouble dealing with since.

I am saved the chore of replying by Ryder bursting in to tears again as my father takes his hand and leads him to the door. I cross the room in two strides and crouch down, just as my mother did, so I am eye-level with him. Even though he is twelve he isn't much taller than the nine-year-olds at school. I shudder to think about what would happen if he were to be Reaped, so I don't think about it.

"Ryder, come on," I say, giving him a slight shake, "you gotta pull yourself together, buddy. It'll be over soon and we'll be back here for dinner in a few hours."

He shakes his head, but doesn't contradict me. so I wipe his teary eyes, close his small hand in mine and together, we walk down the road that leads to town – that leads to the square – that leads to Effie Trinkett and her Reaping balls.

The sun is beating down on the square, everywhere I look people are squinting, trying to block their eyes from the sun and trying to say what could be a final goodbye to their children. My mother envelopes Ryder in her arms and I see her shaking from suppressed sobs. My father opens his arms and I go in to them. He smells fresh, like the forest and his strong arms feel good around my shoulders, they make me feel safe. He kisses the top of my head as I break away and allow myself to be set upon by my mother. When she finally lets me go, I take Ryder's hand and lead him to the roped off area designated to twelve-year-old boys, where he stands straight as a pin, arms stiff by his sides and eyes planted firmly on the stage, and the big transparent ball where his name is on one of those slips of paper. I give him a kiss on the top of the head and squeeze his arm lightly before turning my back on him and walking to the back of the crowd where seventeen-year-old girls stand. I am immediately set upon by Hally, my best friend. She is wearing a pale green dress and looks really pretty. When she sees me she hugs me tightly and plants a kiss on my cheek. When we break apart I link my fingers through hers and we take our places among the other seventeen-year-olds.

Mayor Undersee takes the stage and reads the Treaty of Treason, but I don't listen. I have heard this every year at every Reaping I can remember, and every week at the school assembly. Hally's palms are sweaty, but I don't let go of her and her hand squeezes mine tighter as Effie Trinkett, the ridiculous looking escort for our District, who is wearing a pink wig, takes to the stage. I look at the stage and notice that Haymitch Abernathy, the only living District Twelve Victor, has fallen asleep on his chair, it's hard to tell because I'm so far away, but the way his mouth is moving I'd say he's snoring. The cameras which have been set up all around the square to capture every last second of the Reaping must be zoomed in on Haymitch now. He is something of a running joke with the rest of the country. Always grumpy, always drunk and he always manages to make a fool of himself. Effie glances quickly at his sleeping figure, she looks embarrassed. She steps up to the microphone and hurriedly does her introductions about how exciting it is that another year of Games is finally upon us, about how she can't wait for this whole thing to begin. My hand is losing feeling as Hally squeezes so tightly, but instead of pulling away I squeeze back. I stand on my tiptoes to try and find Ryder in the crowd, but the twelve-year-olds are standing so far away and Ryder is so short that I can't find him.

"Ladies first!" trills Effie Trinkett in a maniacal way. She hurries over to the ball and reaches her hand in just as Haymitch moves in his chair and shouts out a profanity in his sleep. Effie's face pales (although it is hard to tell with all the make-up she has on) and she snatches up the first piece of paper her fingers touch, evidently in a rush to get this whole thing over with. She crosses back to the microphone, smooths out the paper fussily, bends low over the microphone and clears her throat. My stomach has dropped down to my knees and my heart is hammering against my chest. I close my eyes and return Hally's pressure on my hand.

"Pandora Redcliffe!"

Hally's hand squeezes so hard that I almost cry out in pain. I blink a few times as I let it sink in. I turn my head in Hally's direction and see tears tracking down her cheeks as she looks at me with her eyes the size of dinner plates. I trace a small circle over the back of her hand, then I drop it. My legs are shaking as I make my way up to the stage where Effie is waiting, hand outstretched, smiling widely at me. I almost trip up the steps, but I manage to catch myself so quickly that I don't think anyone notices.

"Congratulations," Effie says softly as she leads me over to the place I have watched the tributes stand every year, never thinking it would be me.

I look out over the crowd and I find my mother and father, standing toward the back of the crowd. My mother is crying in to my father's shirt and he is standing straight, staring back at me. I feel my throat closing up as I look down and see Ryder standing in the crowd of twelve-year-olds wringing his hands together and looking everywhere but at the stage; I can tell he's holding back tears.

"Now, for the gentleman!" Effie continues, obviously oblivious to the crushing feeling inside of me. Haymitch wakes up now and I clearly hear him say, "Christ, it is not over yet? I need a drink!" Effie glances behind her at Haymitch looking scandalised. She crosses to the ball that holds the boys' names and reaches her hand in. She crosses back to the microphone, smooths out the paper and calls, "Peeta Mellark!"

A weight lifts off my stomach as I know that Ryder is safe – for another year at least – and look down at the boy who is about to become my competition. He's not very tall (still taller than me, of course), stocky build, blonde hair. He's the year below me in school, but I recognise him anyway, his family own the bakery in town. He walks up to the stage on stiff legs and when Effie instructs us to shake hands, his hands are nearly as sweaty as Hally's were, but I can only assume mine are too. Effie says a few more parting lines about the excitement that awaits us in the Capitol, then she asks everyone to applaud.

In the Justice Building I am led to a plush room with fluffy pillows and squashy lounges, rich carpets and framed pictures hanging on the walls. I've never been in this building before, and, if I'm honest with myself, I'd hoped I'd never see a room so beautiful. I sit on the lounge for what feels like an eternity, but the clock on the wall is moving so slowly it makes me want to throw something. Then, the door opens and my mother, father and Ryder walk in. My mother pulls me close to her and begins to sob in to my hair while my father pats her on the back and looks at me with a dead expression on his face. Ryder sits himself down on one of the armchairs and examines his knees. When my mother finally releases me Ryder comes and sits next to me on the long lounge. I put my arm over his shoulder and he dissolves in to tears again.

"I love you, Pandy," he says in his small voice, and rests his head on my shoulder.

My throat is closing up again and I can feel the tears licking at my eyes. I hold them back though, because I know that there will be cameras at the train station and I don't want to look like a weakling with tear tracked cheeks. "I love you, too." I say, my voice thick.

Then, two Peacekeepers enter the room and tell my family it's time to leave. So many words ball up in my throat, knowing this is the last time I'll ever see them. I pat Ryder on the head, ruffling his dark hair, then I plant a kiss on both my mother's and my father's cheek. I know I have to be strong. My father wraps his arms around me and says in my ear, "Don't count yourself out yet, Pandy, you're stronger than you think." Then, with a sad, watery-eyed smile, he follows my mother and Ryder out of the room, and they're gone. I'm alone.

I am expecting more Peacekeepers to come in when the door opens again, to lead me away from my family and home. So when I see Hally's head poking around the door my heart leaps. She almost runs across the room and throws her arms around me, from the way she's shaking I know she's crying. When she pulls away from me, leaving her arms around me though, her eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are soaking.

"You could win," she chokes out, "nothing is stopping you. You're a fast runner. You're small. If you just … just hide until everyone else kills each other you could win. You could come home."

I look in to her grey eyes and see that she is serious, she actually thinks there is a chance of me coming home. I wish I could believe her. "That's right," I say, because I don't think know is the time to contradict her, "That's right. Hal, if … you know … if something does happen, though, look after Ryder, okay? Just keep an eye on him at school."

Hally nods her head vigorously, then dissolves in to tears again. "I love you," she says in to my shoulder, her voice muffled, "You're the best best friend ever."

Then, the Peacekeepers are back, telling Hally it's time to leave. She hugs me again, squeezing so tight I think my intestines are going to shoot from my mouth, then one of the Peacekeepers takes her arm and leads her out of the room, closing the door behind her. That's it now. I know no one else will come to visit me. I don't have any friends besides Hally and they won't let my family have more time. That's it, now. I'm alone.

I sit with my head in my hands, fighting back tears until the Peacekeepers reappear, this time to lead me to the waiting car that takes me to the train station. I've never been in a car before, but I'm not in any position to enjoy this new experience. I sit stiff in the back seat, looking out the window, trying to soak up every last little thing about this place. The smallest, poorest and famine-stricken District in the country. My home.

When we reach the train station I make to hurry on to the open doors of the waiting train but I am hindered by two Peacekeepers who flank the doors and quietly instruct me to stand still. Soon, I am joined by Peeta Mellark and we stand shoulder to shoulder at the doors of the train as the cameras take in our images, allowing the people of the Capitol, who are the only ones in the country not at their own Reaping, a good look at us. As I am standing amidst the flash of camera bulbs and the sea of lenses I can't help but wonder if any Capitol citizen will sponsor me once the Games begin. Of course, there's a larger than life chance that none will, and that pretty much seals the deal on my death sentence, but only time will tell.

Eventually, the cameras disperse and the Peacekeepers shimmy Peeta Mellark and I in to the train doors. Once they shut behind us I feel a weight left off my chest, even though this is officially the beginning of my journey to my death, at least I have a day of privacy away from all the cameras. Effie Trinkett leads me through to my very own quarters, equip with a bed, dresser full of clothes and a bathroom with unlimited hot water, then leaves me to wash and change. She seems distracted as she tells me the time lunch will be served. When I stand under the shower I realise that it is where I'd like to stay for the rest of my life; the feeling of the warm water raining down on me is second to none. I stand, letting the water run down my body, wishing that it would take me away with it.

When I finally drag myself out of the shower I dress in the first clothes that my hands touch in the drawer and my hair is still in the plait my mother did. I absent-mindedly run my hands over it, imagining my mother doing the same – remembering her doing the same just this morning. I sit down on the cushy bed and draw myself in to a ball, rocking myself slowly back and forth. I feel like the walls of the train are pressing in on me, but I can't find it in myself to cry. It seems like I am just empty inside, devoid of all feelings. The image of first my mother, then my father, then Ryder, then Hally all swim in to my consciousness, then fade away as quickly as they came. I rest my head on my knees and start to make sobbing noises, but still no tears come. Maybe this is a sign that I should try to be strong. Hally's words come back to me "You could win. You're fast", and they're quickly replaced by father's words, "Don't count yourself out … you're stronger than you think." For the first time since Effie Trinkett called my name, I allow myself to think about the possibility of winning. Of returning to my District as the first victor in twenty-four years. Of being able to throw my arms around my family again.

A sharp knock on the door breaks me out of my revelry, "Pandora!" the shrill voice of Effie Trinkett rings through the rich wooden door, "time for lunch in the dining car!"

When I emerge from the door, Effie is gone. No doubt she couldn't wait for lunch. I don't know where the dining car is, but I manage to find it easily. When I enter, I first think it's empty. Then I notice Peeta Mellark standing with his hands behind his back, staring out the window. I feel awkward and I'm sure my cheeks are reddening. I don't know how to act around him – how do you make conversation with a person who will be aiming to kill you in a week? So, I say nothing. I quietly make my way to the large wooden table in the centre of the room and sit down, silently screaming for Effie or even Haymitch to hurry up and join us.

As soon as this wish comes true, I regret it. Haymitch staggers in to the car with his back to us, yelling at some unseen passenger, his voice garbled from drink. Peeta starts at the sound and, upon seeing me sitting at the table, looks as awkward as I feel, and hastily takes a seat at the table. Haymitch, who is still hollering at the unseen person, turns around to see us sitting at the table and laughs. It's a drunken, high-pitched, maniacal sounding laugh and it makes my blood boil. No wonder District Twelve hasn't had a victor since him, if he's been the mentor. "Sour looking bunch, aren't ya?" he says, before breaking out in another round of laughter and taking a large gulp of whatever he has in his flask.

"I'm sorry," Peeta says softly, not looking at Haymitch, "would you rather us be pissed up and laughing like you?"

Haymitch stares at Peeta, who's hair is damp from showering with his eyes narrowed, but doesn't retort. The tense moment is broken by the arrival of Effie Trinkett; if I can say one thing for her, it's that she knows how to draw the attention of a room. She flounces in to the room and immediately begins a monologue about our schedule and other Capitol/Games related things I try to tune out.

"So, do you help us or what?" I ask timidly, avoiding Haymitch's eye but staring intensely at the delicious looking food that has just been laid out on my plate. Haymitch doesn't answer, nor does Effie. The silence is pressing so for something to do I take a large gulp of the fresh orange juice that sits in a nicely decorated cup. "Well?" I press when still, I get no reply.

"S'posed to," Haymitch says, shrugging and taking another sip from his flask, "can't see what good it'll do, though, eh?" he narrows his eyes, but not in an angry way; rather like he is trying his best to focus on Peeta and I, "you're shorter than most of the twelve year olds I've seen," he says to me, then turns to Peeta, "and you don't look like you've got much potential, neither. Too well-fed."

This shocks me; of all the things I thought he would say, that wasn't it. I exchange a look with Peeta, but then I quickly remind myself that he is my opponent, not my ally, and look back down at the stew that dances on my plate.

"Well, that's your job isn't it?" Peeta asks, impatience creeping in to his voice now, "you're supposed to give us advice and … and, just help us!"

This makes Haymitch laugh again. And perhaps Peeta shares the same train of thought as I do, because I know it will be no use trying to reason with Haymitch right now, he's much too drunk, and Peeta doesn't press the issue anymore. Maybe we'll try again tomorrow. Or maybe he'll stay like this and Peeta and I will both die at the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Who knows what the future holds? This time yesterday I never imagined I'd be here, on this tribute train, speeding at 1,000 mph toward certain death.

My prep team are the three most strange human beings I have ever encountered. One of them, Octavia, has dyed green skin, Flavius has orange corkscrew curls and Venia has golden tattoos all over her face. When they first entered my room at the Remake Centre I nearly didn't believe they were actually human. And the way they talk about the Games makes me doubt their humanity even more. All day, while they rip every hair follicle from my body and dip me in foul lotion, they chatter amongst themselves about how excited they are about the Games finally being here and they act as though I can't understand them. Like they don't think I'm human. Ironic, huh? My stylist, Cinna, on the other hand, seems normal enough. At least his skin isn't green. He actually doesn't look that different from someone who I would encounter in Twelve, with the exception of the gold eyeliner, but even that seems to accentuate his features rather than overpower them. When we eat lunch together, which is more delectable food, he speaks calmly and evenly and, thankfully, he doesn't once mention his excitement about the upcoming Games.

"So, what will I be wearing for the Opening Ceremony?" I ask half-way through lunch, when my curiosity finally gets the better of me. Being from District Twelve, the coal district, our tributes are always dressed in either unflattering coal miner outfits or near naked smeared with coal dust. I watch him as he finishes chewing his food before answering.

"I was just about to bring that up," he says, and he's smiling. Maybe he finds near naked children appealing or something, "how do you feel about … fire?"

I nearly choke on the mouthful of juice I just took. "F-fire?"

He smiles again, but in a friendly way, it makes my heart rate slow a little. "Not real fire, of course, but it's hard to explain. Wait until we've finished eating and I'll show you," he pauses, no doubt seeing the horrified look on my face, "don't worry. You'll love it. They'll love it. They'll be calling you 'the girl who was on fire.'"

I eat the rest of my meal as quickly as I can because my insides are writhing with curiosity. Is this man seriously thinking of setting me on fire? If I suffer third-degree burns will they throw me in the arena anyway? Surely they will. Once, when I was around ten-years-old, my father's arm was burned pretty badly in a small mine explosion and I remember him telling me not to come in to the room while my mother was cleaning and bandaging it, but I did. The skin from his shoulder to his elbow was pink and bumpy looking. I can still feel my stomach dropping when I saw it. A small shudder goes through me as I imagine my whole body looking like that, then being forced to fight to the death on live television.

When Cinna shows me the suit I will be wearing, which is a completely black jumpsuit that covers me from neck to ankle and sturdy boots I am confused. As I am lacing up my boot I am still trying to figure out when fire comes in to the equation. When I straighten up, Cinna places a cape and a crown on my head and explains about the synthetic fire that he and his partner Portia (who is Peeta's stylist) have developed. It will look like real fire but won't burn. Apparently, he says it will make such a bang that we will be the talk of the Opening Ceremony. I can't help but agree with him, if it works; the image of my father's charred skin still plays on my mind as we walk down to the area under the Remake Centre, which is something of a holding pen. Twelve chariots are placed an even length apart, each being pulled by two horses; one for each district. The other tributes are gathered in close to their chariots, not speaking, not hardly moving. Occasionally, I see someone stroking their horse, but other than that, nothing. I can't help but notice all the other girls are in dresses of some description, the outfits have to reflect the district in some way, but I am the only girl I can see dressed in such a masculine jumpsuit.

Peeta appears beside me, flanked by a woman I guess is Portia, wearing a jumpsuit identical to mine, which does nothing to calm my nervousness about being dressed so masculine; I guess it's a strange thing to worry about given the current situation, but you've got to choose your battles. Peeta and I stand in silence as Cinna and Portia converse in low tones, hopefully not about the reliability of our costumes. Then, a voice sounds over some unseen speaker, instructing us to prepare for the ceremony to begin. Peeta and I climb in to the chariot and avoid looking at each other.

"Do you think this will work?" I ask him quietly, so Cinna won't hear, and still looking firmly in front of me.

"I hope so!" Peeta says, and I think I hear a smile in his voice.

Cinna steps up to the side of the chariot holding a kind of torch. He lights my cape as Portia does the same to Peeta on his side. I poise myself, ready to rip off the cape at the first sign of heat, but none comes, even though I can see Peeta's cape flickering with flame that must be identical to mine. Our eyes meet and he raises his eyebrows slightly, but relief shows all over his face.

"One last thing," Cinna says as the chariot begins to move, he takes a few slow steps and adds, "hold hands."

It takes me a second to process what he said. I turn to look at Peeta and I see my confusion mirrored on his face. Why would Cinna tell us to hold hands? Why does he want to make us look like a team? Peeta holds out his hand and for a split second I think about ignoring it, but I should put my trust in Cinna. I take Peeta's hand and it is sweaty. Our hands hang limply between us, neither one putting too much pressure on the other's hand, until the chariot picks up speed as we come out of the holding pen and in to the open. The chariot rocks precariously and I grip Peeta's hand tighter to stop myself falling out. I allow myself to focus on the audience and it is pandemonium. People are packed in to the City Circle, some holding flags, and all screaming and yelling. I realise, with a sudden pang in my stomach, that they are calling to me – to Peeta and me – they must have read our names from the programme. Struck by a sudden inspiration, I raise my free hand and wave to the crowd. They nauseate me, with their Games loving attitude, but I can't forget that these will be the people who will sponsor me once the Games begin and maybe if I make a good enough impression I'll have a better chance at survival; gifts can sometimes be the line between life and death. Of course, Haymitch will be in charge of the gift giving, so maybe it won't matter how many people sponsor us after all.

When the procession reaches the arc of the City Circle, right out the front of President Snow's mansion, we stop. I realise my hand is glued to Peeta's so tightly I'm unsure if I'll be able to prise it away. We stand, motionless, as the president makes the speech I've seen him make every year, at ever Games – except I've only ever seen it from my TV screen.

I wake to Effie Trinkett rapping on my door. I don't know what time it is but the sun has barely cleared the horizon. She is trilling that it's going to be a "big, big, big day!" and that I should be in the dining hall for breakfast in fifteen minutes. My stomach twists itself in to a tight knot as I remember that today is the day that training begins. Today is the day I will come face-to-face with the other tributes, my competition.

The shower in my room is amazing. There are a dozen different taps and each does something different. When I step out of the shower and press a button to dry myself without a towel, I smell so strongly of roses that it almost overwhelms me. I dress in the clothes that have been left for me, simple black pants and t-shirt. At least it's not on fire.

When I enter the dining hall I see Haymitch sitting hunched over a plate of soup, but he is sipping at his flask, as usual, and Peeta sitting across from him picking at a bread roll. I slide in to a chair at the end of the table and help myself from the buffet of food.

"Well," Haymitch says out of nowhere, his voice croaky, "do either of you have any skills that are worthy of my time?"

"No," I say bitterly, taking a sip of juice. Then, Hally's voice rings in my head. "Well, I'm a fast runner, but I don't know if that's what you mean …"

Haymitch surveys me for a few moments, "well, it's not completely useless. Distance or sprint?"

"Both,"

"Well, that's better than nothing. What about you, boy?" he looks at Peeta, then his eyes fall on me, "if you want to be coached separately, speak now."

Peeta and I both shake our heads at the same time. I have no secret skills so I don't see the point of being coached separately. "I can lift weights," Peeta says hopelessly, "and I came second in the school wrestling competition."

"Hand-to-hand combat," Haymitch nods, "that's something. Stay away from the weights in training – don't let the others now how strong you are." He looks at me, but I know he won't say anything. What can he say? Don't run fast in front of anyone? My 'skill' is useless. "You try everything in that training room, got it? Throw a spear or a knife, shoot an arrow, tie a knot … anything. That's what this week is for. Learning new skills. So do it." Haymitch leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. Just when I've concluded that he's fallen asleep – or passed out – he opens his eyes and says, "oh yeah, in training, stick together."

I'm glad to see that Haymitch does seem to know how to be a mentor, in the mornings, before he's too drunk. If he can give us advice over breakfast every day this week he might be able to help us after all.

When we arrive in the training room, my knees almost give out. I've always been short for my age, but compared to everyone else in this room I look like a child. A quick scan of the room tells me that the only tribute I'm taller than is a little dark-skinned girl who has an eleven pinned to her shirt – and she is definitely a twelve-year-old. The training woman, Atala, tells us what to do, then leaves us to our own devices. Per Haymitch's instructions, Peeta and I stick together. We try throwing knives first. My first attempt is disastrous, I miss the target completely and a sour-faced girl I think is from District Two sniggers in to her hand. As the day progresses, however, it turns out I'm not too bad at throwing knives, I hit the bulls eye eight times out of ten and I even manage to hit the bulls eye once with an arrow. Peeta is really good at the knife throwing too, he hits the bulls eye every time he tries, and when we try our hands at the camouflage station he excels. He manages to paint him arm in to something that would completely disappear on the forest floor.

"How did you do that?" I demand, pointing wildly at his arm. "Can you teach me?"

"I do the cakes at home," he says, looking down and examining his work. "And I can try. I don't think it's that hard … but I have been doing it my whole life.

Turns out, it is that hard. For nearly the whole second day of training Peeta and I crowd around the camouflage station, with him trying to teach me to use the dyes to create something that will help me in the Games, but to no avail. When I try to mimic Peeta's work, it turns out looking like something a child might bring home from school, so I give up. I can do without camouflage anyway. If I need to hide I'll just climb a tree or something.

On the final day of training, we have private sessions with the Gamemakers. The point of this is for us to "impress" them, then they give us a score out of twelve, which will be the starting point for the sponsors. All the tributes gather in the dining room and are called by District, boys first, in to a different room. The room is silent and awkward as we all sit, avoiding each other's eye. I rack my brains to try and think about what I can do to impress the Gamemakers. Over the week in training I've become quite good at throwing knives, I hit the bulls eye almost every time now, but I don't know if that will be good enough; maybe I'll scrape a six or seven. Maybe.

Finally, when the tiny little girl from Eleven disappears through the heavy doors my muscles relax a little, being in the room with Peeta, even though he is my competition too, feels a lot less tense than being surrounded by twenty-two other strangers who are thirsting for my blood. The soft sound of Peeta drumming his fingers on the table-top is the only noise. My breathing echoes in my ears and seems to be one thousand times louder than it really is. Finally, a deep voice summons Peeta in to the room and I am alone. Once the door is closed behind him, I leap up and begin to pace around the room. What will happen if I completely bomb out and score a one? Surely that will mean no one will sponsor me and I'll be easy pickings for the others. But, being from District Twelve and being my height, maybe that's already my fate.

What seems like hours later, the voice calls my name. My knees won't bend as I walk in to the large, almost empty room. The Gamemakers are sitting at a long table, but they look like they've been here too long. Had too much to drink. I state my name and one of them nods his approval, then quickly returns to his plate of stew. Unsure of what to do, I make my way over to the table where an impressive array of knives sit. My footsteps echo horribly around the room with every step I take and it makes my heart beat faster. I pick up a knife and throw it at the target. It sticks, right in the centre of the bulls eye; I have to restrain myself from whooping in joy that I managed it, but the sight of the Gamemakers brings me back down to earth. Not one of them seems to have seen that. They're all going in to transports of delight over a roasted pig that has just been rolled in. I clear my throat, which commands maybe two of them to look at me, and throw the knife again. This time, however, it misses the bulls eye. After that, all is lost. I throw knife after knife, hitting the bulls eye pretty often until they tell me I can leave.

In the elevator I lean against the wall feeling dispirited. There is no way I could have achieved a good score from the Gamemakers. Throwing knives isn't anything exciting and they were all too drunk to remember me anyway. I stand in the shower for a long time, wallowing in my own misery, until the ever-cheerful Effie Trinkett, who can always be counted on to be lurking around, knocks on the door and tells me it's time for dinner. I take my time getting dressed anyway, my encounter with the Gamemakers has just reinforced the fact I already knew, the fact everyone knows – that we tributes are nothing to them, sometimes I wonder if they even remember we're people; not just things created to kill each other for their entertainment.

When I enter the dining room Peeta, Haymitch, Effie, Cinna and Portia are all gathered around the table. I slide in to an empty chair and begin to heap my plate with food. I hear the conversation kicking on around me but I don't listen until Haymitch's voice cuts across my thoughts, "What about you, huh? How'd you go?" he points his fork at me and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"Uh," I say, laying down my knife and fork, "I don't know, really. I don't think it mattered too much, they were pretty drunk by the time I was in there."

"Yeah," Peeta nods his agreement, "I found the same thing."

After dinner we all make our way in to the adjoining sitting room to get the training scores. I sit on the lounge next to Cinna and he smiles reassuringly at me as the seal of Panem flashes across the screen and the scores begin to flash. Predictably, the tributes from Districts One, Two and Four get around the ten mark and most of the others get middle-scores, around sevens. Even the little girl from Eleven manages to pull an eight, which both reassures me and makes me nervous; maybe the Gamemakers score easily, or maybe I'm going to get the lowest score. Peeta pulls an eight and Portia claps him on the shoulder in congratulations and even Haymitch cracks a smile. Then my picture flashes on the screen and I hold my breath. Six. Cinna gives me a light peck on the cheek in congratulations but I know he's just humouring me. That's a terrible score, I know it, and I know he knows it.

When the programme finishes we all leave the room. I feel like crap because of my score, and I don't feel like sleeping. Sleep will bring tomorrow closer, and I just want time to freeze. Cinna walks me back to my room and he smiles reassuringly at me and places a friendly hand on my shoulder. When he retreats back down the hall, however, I don't open my door and go in to my room. I double back down the hall and open the door that leads to the staircase that leads to the roof. I don't know if I'm allowed up here, but it feels like a lifetime since I've had fresh air and I need to be alone. When I reach the roof the cool night air settles across my face and I feel a smile stretch my lips. I cross to the edge of the roof and lean on the rail. The view of the city is amazing and I find myself mesmerised by it. The moon shines bright in the sky, but there are no stars, no doubt from all the light that Capitol produces. I find myself thinking longingly of home and the black, velvety sky that is always full of stars.

"Oh," the voice makes me start and when I whirl around I see Peeta standing about four feet behind me, hands in his pockets looking awkward, "sorry. I didn't think anyone would be up here. I can go …" he starts to turn around back toward the stairs.

"No, it's okay," I say turning back to the city, "you can stay up here if you want. I know what it's like to need fresh air. To be out of that place, even if we're not really."

Peeta laughs, but it's humourless, and joins me at the edge of the roof. We stand in silence for a long time – or it might only be a few minutes – before Peeta turns to me and says, "You know, your score doesn't matter all that much," I turn to look at him to see if he's trying to be sympathetic, but he isn't. His voice is matter-of-fact and he stares out at the city just as I've been doing, "For all anyone knows you did it on purpose, to fake everyone else out."

"But I didn't." I say a little hopelessly.

"But they don't know that … I don't even know that," he adds, finally turning to look at me, "you could be being strategic. Don't stress so much, okay?"

I look at him incredulously, "Don't stress? Don't stress? Peeta, look where we are, look what we're about to do! How can you not stress?"

"Because," he says, sliding down the ledge and sitting down with his legs crossed, "because there is nothing we can do about it, is there? You could worry yourself half to death over this whole thing and they would still chuck you in the arena. We're stuck in this situation, Pandora. Best you get used to it."

"So you're not worried, then? You're not scared about being murdered?" I sit down beside him and bring my knees up to my chest. I'm not sure if we're being filmed up here, I've never seen footage of tributes up here, but that doesn't mean we aren't being monitored.

"Of course I'm worried," Peeta says, humourlessly laughing again, "I'm terrified. But like I said, there's nothing to be done about any of it, so why bother?" he leans his head against the ledge and turns it to face me. "I can guarantee every one of the tributes is terrified. How could they not be?"

I lean my head back on the wall and sigh loudly. I don't know why I'm even having this conversation with him. He is, after all, my opponent in all this and thinking about the Games even more than usual is bothering me and making my heart beat faster.

We sit in silence again, letting the sounds of the night wash over us, the cool breeze cool our bodies. I sideways glance at Peeta and see him wringing his fingers together in front of him and examining them. The silence that has fallen between us isn't awkward now, it's a comfortable one, each of us absorbed in their own thoughts.

"Do you have any regrets?" Peeta asks finally, his voice is croaky from lack of use and his hands are clenched on his knees.

I let his question sink in. This is proof that he, too, knows that neither of us are coming out of the arena alive. Neither of us will ever see home again. "What do you mean?"

"You know, like, things you wish you'd done … when you had the chance?"

"Grow old?" I suggest, which makes us both laugh a little, before the truth of my statement sinks in. "What about you, Peeta?"

He looks at me again, then his eyes flit back to his hands. "I – well,"

"Come on," I coax, "I promise I won't tell anyone," this makes us both laugh again, though the laughter dies quickly.

"Well, there's this girl. Back home. I've loved her since … since I can remember … but I never told her. And now, well … well, I guess she'll never know." He pauses, "I wish I'd told her when I could have."

"Who is she?" I ask, it might be an insensitive question, or maybe inappropriate, because Peeta and I shouldn't be sharing personal things, but what can it hurt?

"Um, I don't know if you'd know her … she's in my school year," he shifts so his legs are straight out in front of him. "Do you know Katniss Everdeen?"

The name stirs something in my brain. I struggle to place it. "Oh, yeah. Is she from the Seam?" he nods. "Yeah, I know her. Well, I don't know her, but I know who she is. My father buys game off her and Gale Hawthorne."

Peeta smiles a tight smile and rests his head back on the wall. "You know," he laughs, "I've never even spoken to her? She probably doesn't even know who I am, well, before the Reaping, anyway."

I hesitate for a second, then place my hand lightly on his shoulder, "Don't stress about it, okay? You can't change anything by stressing."

He turns his head to face me and laughs a little. "Wise words." He says nodding, concealing his smile.

"Come on," I say, standing up and offering him my hand to help him, "we should get some sleep. No doubt Effie will be waking us up in a few hours for another big big big day!" my perfect imitation of the Capitol accent coaxes another smile out of him.

As we walk back across the roof toward the stairs I catch Peeta's eye and he smiles. I realise he is a nice person, and I am engulfed by fear. Fear because in three days we will be thrown in to the arena and pitted against each other. However, I can't help myself thinking that with twenty-two other people in the arena with us, someone will most likely kill him before I get the chance … or maybe kill me.