Say The Arena Is Actually A Gigantic Cake

by IAmWithTheMockingjay

Katniss may have sneered, but it turns out that the Boy with the Bread was right after all: the 74th Hunger Games' arena is a giant cake. And as the Games rage on, can the District 12 tributes rely on their mentor's gifts to save them? Pure crack/parody one-shot - but reviews are always appreciated!

As my lips break away from Peeta's, something brushes the edge of my shoulder. I whirl around, grasping frantically for my bow (how have I been so stupid as to set it down – even for a second; even for romance's sake?), my pulse pounding in my chest, my ears, my eyes –

But the attack I fear never hits me. I blink, stupidly – and then I see it.

The small, silvery package, already half-buried in glacé cherries from the impact of its fall.

I was right. Romance: that's what the Capitol audience wants to see from me, from us - the Starcrossed Lovers from District Twelve, hopelessly devoted to each other even at a time like this. I clamber to my feet, half-slide towards the package through the congealed, venomous, vermillion sludge of blood and strawberry frosting; I'm blessing them, our supporters and sponsors, the Capitol – thank you, thank you! – and I'm thanking Haymitch most of all, this close to crying out my gratitude aloud – because, for a split second, I'm overwhelmed by absolute hope. It looks as if the antidote is in reach – and maybe, just maybe, Peeta will live.

I tear open the packaging.

"K-Katniss?"

"Shush, Peeta – it's…"

Oh my goodness.

"…it's a candle."

A candle – a thin, spindly sculpture in blue wax. It's barely the size of my finger.

"Katniss! What's going on?"

Instructions on a scrap of yellowing paper tied around it read, Stick me into the frosting.

I do so – and it springs to light: a pale yellow flame, a fingernail high.

Weakly, the candle holder begins to bleat out a tinny, ancient tune. It's a song from years gone by, one from a traditional still honoured by the Capitol. I've caught snatches of it on TV during Hunger Games broadcasts in the past – enough to remember a handful of its words.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…

I stare at the candle. Peeta's talking again, mumbling something – but the candle is melting, already than half of its initial size, its foul flesh oozing down onto the frosting. My thoughts are racing, but my features are set, fixed and firm. It's been a long time coming, but my find is finally made up.

I am going to make it out of this arena alive. And when I do, I am going to beat the living shit out of Haymitch Abernathy.