A/N: I do not own The Hunger Games trilogy or any of the characters therein. Damn.

I thought The Hunger Games was absolutely amazing, but for me there was a very distinct point in Catching Fire where a plot twist sort of crushed my expectations for how I thought the rest of the story would go. So- eventually I felt compelled to start writing how I envisioned the story might continue if things had been just a little bit different. However, this plot twist came with a lot more story left than my Twilight fanfics (this picks up at the end of Chapter 12 of Catching Fire), so we will see how far I get (and ultimately I have no idea where it will end up). By the way, I loved Peeta in these books. Just so you know what you're getting into.

Chapter 1: "The Quell", only a little different

(Italicized portions towards the beginning represent book excerpts).

"And now we honor our Third Quarter Quell," says the president. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that neither they nor their families can overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the youngest immediate family members, aged 12 and over, of the existing pool of victors."

My mother gives a faint shriek and Prim's jaw drops to the floor as her face turns a ghastly white, but I feel more like the people I see in the crowd on television. Slightly baffled. What does it mean? Immediate family members of the existing pool of victors?

Then I get it, what it means. At least, for me. District 12 has only three victors to choose from. Haymitch doesn't have family. Peeta's family in that age range would be his brothers. Male. One female….

Prim is going into the arena.

My body reacts before my mind does and I'm running out the door, across the lawns of the Victor's Village, into the dark beyond. Moisture from the sodden ground soaks my socks and I'm aware of the sharp bite of the wind, but I don't stop. Where? Where to go? The woods, of course, I'm at the fence before the hum makes me remember how very trapped I am. I back away, panting, turn on my heel, and take off again.

The next thing I know I'm on my hands and knees in the cellar of one of the empty houses in the Victor's Village. Faint shafts of moonlight come in through the window wells above my head. I'm cold and wet and winded, but my escape attempt does nothing to subdue the hysteria rising up inside me. It will drown me unless it's released. I ball up the front of my shirt, stuff it into my mouth, and begin to scream. How long this continues, I don't know. But when I stop, my voice is almost gone.

I curl up on my side and stare at the patches of moonlight on the cement floor. Prim is going into the arena. In the place of nightmares. I knew that her odds had increased slightly from last year, being a year older. But still- they were supposed to be in her favor. She was only thirteen, and had never signed up for the tesserae. Nor would she ever have needed to, now that we ate so well in the Victor's Village. Had this been any other games, she would have had exactly two slips of paper in the reaping ball among thousands. Not that that has to matter. I think back briefly to last year.

There's some kind of sheeting, the kind they put down when they paint. I pull it over me like a blanket. I simply cannot believe that my absolute worse-case scenario is happening. This exact situation is the one that I risked my life last year to painstakingly avoid. I have to watch my baby sister enter an arena so vicious; it took every fiber of my determination and resolve to make it out alive, and not without emotional and psychological damage (physical, too, if they hadn't mended my ear). I wouldn't wish being a tribute on my worst enemies, never mind the person I love more than anything in the world. Not only that, but unlike last year, I can't simply step in and volunteer, take control of the situation. I am on the outside looking in, helpless.

I hear names calling out to me, and I realize that I am being unconscionably selfish. I should be there for Prim. I immediately hop up and brush the dust off. I then break into a run for the few houses I have to traverse until I have arrived home. I enter our house to see both my mother and Prim sobbing, holding onto each other for dear life. The guilt at being by myself, even if it was only for the last hour, gnaws at me. I join the hug of my mother and sister and it doesn't take long before my tears start flowing with theirs. Yet even under my sadness, my rage towards President Snow and anything Capitol-related bubbles up effervescently to the surface. I take turns bawling, and then seething, though I choose to keep my hateful comments to myself. Prim doesn't need to hear them.

After a while of this, Prim says she's exhausted and asks to go to her room and be by herself, and a few minutes later my mother attends to a miner who has been brought in with a somewhat serious leg burn. Emotionally drained, yet filled with pent-up anger, I decide to walk over to see Haymitch.

Haymitch is sitting at his table, a glass of white liquor in his hands, the remainder of the bottle resting in the middle of the table like a centerpiece. But he's not alone. Peeta sits next to him, clutching his own glass half-filled with liquid. Funny, I had been thinking I would want the exact same thing when I got here. Peeta takes one look at my face and without another word crosses the room to retrieve another cup for me. He fills it practically to the brim and sets it down on the table next to him, patting the empty chair. I manage to crack a one-quarter smile on the side of my mouth; even in his misery, Peeta is kind to me. But as I take a closer look at his face, it seems as though there is a whole other level of complex emotions on which I appear to be missing out, more than just sadness for one of his brothers and anger at the Capitol. When I zoom in on Haymitch's face, who isn't losing any family, the answer becomes crystal-clear.

We aren't on the outside looking in. We have to train them. And between Peeta's brother and Prim, only one of them will make it out alive.

I think back to my time in the arena. When it first occurred to me that winning would carry with it the responsibility of mentoring the next year's tributes, I had thrust the idea from my mind forcefully, thoroughly repulsed. Well, now the pendulum has swung back, and the thought crashes into my mind with the force of a Mack truck. Reeling, I half-stumble over to the table and clutch the chair next to Peeta before lowering myself gingerly on it. I now grasp the entirety of what he is feeling. An additional burden of insurmountable pressure and anxiety, conflict and confusion- after all, I want Prim to live more than anything, but I certainly don't want one of Peeta's brothers to die. I pick up my glass and take a glug of the foul-smelling liquid, which burns my insides. Good. Most of my insides were burning already. Now they all match.

"Well," slurs Haymitch. "I know you guys won't see the silver lining, but the good news is that since we are the only three victors, and we don't have very many relatives, we essentially know already who we're going to be working with, months ahead of time. This gives us a distinct advantage over most of the other districts. We can start training and figuring out our strategy as early as tomorrow."

Haymitch is right- neither Peeta nor I can yet see exactly how he can say this is good news. We both tip back our glasses and finish our drinks.