I emerge from the suffocating claustrophobia of the tube and light explodes around me, surrounding me like a fireball, blinding me with its intensity. I snap my eyelids shut, seeing flashes of yellow, pink, and white. I can't help registering each distinct color. They're instantaneously imprinted in my mind, and I know I won't forget them. All my memories and thoughts have colors and shades. But these fade fast, replaced by muted blackness, and I shudder involuntarily. I am terrified.

I don't know where I am, only that I am surrounded by enemies and can't see a single one of them. I knew I might be afraid, but until this moment, I had no idea how much. But what frightens me even more than what awaits me, is the thought of her out there. Desperate. Maybe even terrified, too. I won't let anything happen to her if I can somehow prevent it. Haymitch and I agreed. We made a deal, and I hold onto that. Letting that color my thoughts, filling me up with a fiery, blazing brightness. It's hot. Because I am desperate, too.

I know he told her to run, to flee as far from the Cornucopia as she could, as fast as she was able. He told her to do what she would not want to do, and so I have to do what every part of me fears to do, and do it anyway. When she runs away from the bloodshed, I must run into it. Straight into it. I couldn't survive in the woods on my own anyway. I know that. I'm a baker, after all. I'd be helpless. Useless. I probably wouldn't last a day out there. But this, this might be useful. And we agreed.

So I have to open my eyes, force myself to adjust, get my bearings, get my wits about me. I'll need them. After all, as Haymitch once pointed out, that is probably the one real card I have to play and, hopefully, not what they will expect.

I remember his exact words, too, because I had not expected them. Not at all.

It was the first time I mentioned my intentions, what I was going to do and not do in the arena. I'd been thinking about the conversation for awhile and how I would convince him. I knew I would do it with or without his help. But his help would make it a lot easier.

I was sitting tensely in a too-plush chair in the corner of his room, staring a little wildly at the man who'd ten minutes ago tossed himself onto the couch and proceeded to snore loudly, his awkward limbs never repositioned. It couldn't possibly be comfortable. But then, he probably wasn't aware of anything. Which was a problem.

I got up and strode purposefully to the couch, nudging his shoulder gently. That seemed a good place to start. I could easily drag him off the couch and toss him in the shower, again, but that would make him uncooperative, so I considered it a last-resort tactic.

His snores persisted, so I shook him and yelled, "Haymitch!" directly into his ear.

He swiftly swung a knife around in a wide arc from somewhere beneath his belly and glared at me with dull, crazed eyes. Thankfully, I'd expected this, and jumped backward just in time.

"What the hell, kid?" he bellowed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why are you still here?"

"I want to talk to you about my strategy," I said stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest, unwilling to let him settle back into his drunken stupor.

He frowned and scratched his chin, clearly preparing to bury his face back in the pillow. "I told you already. Stay alive. Best I can do."

"It's not the best you can do," I persisted angrily. I'm a calm person. I try not to speak harshly to people, because I know what it feels like, and I never want to make anyone feel the way I have felt my whole life. Worthless. But I didn't have the time or patience to be indulgent with Haymitch, and I sensed that being direct was the only way to get through to him. Plus, he could take it—and deserved it—to be blunt.

He raised an eyebrow at me and scowled. "If you're going to talk to me like that, you'd better get out of here. I might accidentally throw this knife in your general direction."

But I was unmoving, and it irritated him. He rubbed his hollow eyes, like he was trying un-see things he could never un-see. "Look, I can't help you—," he began, his voice low.

"Haymitch, I know I'm going to die," I spat out, matter of fact, trying to keep my voice from wavering. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Though I'd had every intention of being firm and confident, I betrayed myself. Clearing my throat, I pressed on, "I just want to live long enough to make sure she doesn't."

He narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. Of course. He opened his mouth, probably to curse at me, but then he hesitated. I held my breath, waiting for him to kick me out and already prepared to protest. Instead, he ordered, "Get me a drink."

He rolled onto his back and watched me hasten over to the bar where I stood frozen, uncertain which of the many bottles to choose from. I looked to him for guidance. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and muttered, "Doesn't matter which."

So I'd grabbed the closest one and poured the amber liquid into a glass. I was being quick, wanting to get it to him before he changed his mind about this little chat. When I handed it to him he took a long drink, eyes pinched together. The smell of it burned my nose, and I wondered what it was doing to his throat. Probably, exactly what he wanted it to.

Finally, he pulled the glass away and said harshly, "What's your angle?"

"There's no angle," I snapped, affronted. I stormed back to the chair I had occupied earlier and threw myself into it, calming just as quickly as my atypical fit of temper had arisen. I wanted to be mad at him, but I really couldn't be. He was doing his job. Sort of. And this was the worst situation to be in. It was definitely not the way I had wanted to reveal the information I harbored—or who I'd wanted to share it with. I buried my head in my hands and whispered, "I love her."

"You've got to be kidding me," he snorted loudly, unbelieving. "The girl? The ice princess?" He chortled, and I peaked between my trembling fingers to see him throwing back another gulp of liquor.

I steeled myself, frowning. He was going to think this made me weak. But it didn't. It made me stronger. Determined. And I needed him to understand that—and maybe even respect me for it. Or at the very least, help me because of it.

"No, I'm not kidding" I said firmly, clutching my knees with white-knuckled hands. "Even if we were the last two left, I wouldn't lift a hand to hurt her. I've loved her for almost as long as I can remember. Whether she knows it or not, I've been trying to show her for years. I'm not going to stop now. So I want you to help me help her. I'll do anything, and I'll do it anyway. But it would go a whole lot better with your direction and input."

"Why?" he asked incredulously, mouth agape, brow wrinkled in confusion. But then his face smoothed as I opened mine to reply, and he interrupted. "Scratch that. I don't need the nitty, gritty details. What matters is whether or not you can sell it."

"Sell it? It's not a game! It's my life!" I shouted in frustration, running a hand over my perfectly-sleek hair.

"Of course it is. Your life is a game now. Get used to it," Haymitch spat back at me, eyes boring holes into mine. He brought the drink back to his lips and then slammed it down on his knee. The liquid sloshed onto his pants, but he didn't bat an eye. "If you haven't realized that yet, you're already behind, and this is going to be a lot harder."

"It's not a game to me, Haymitch," I pleaded earnestly, trying to make him understand. I leaned forward, digging my elbows into my knees painfully. "It's about more than my life. Who cares about mine?" I scoffed sadly. "No one, I imagine. But I care about hers. More than anything," I added with finality, even as he diverted his eyes to look longingly at his almost-empty glass.

Then he looked at me strangely, head cocked to the side. He squinted his eyes like he was measuring me, like he was seeing me clearly for the first time. Then he laughed again.

"Thank God you've got a good mouth on you," he said wryly, hopping up with surprising agility to replenish his glass.

"What?" I asked, bewildered, sitting back in the chair.

"Did you get smacked on the head in training today?" He shot back sarcastically, crossing the room to stand in front of me. He smacked me himself, for good measure. "Well get a hold of yourself," he commanded. "You're good with words. Quick-witted. Charismatic. Believable. We can use that."

"So you'll do it? You'll help me?" I'd asked excitedly, gratefully, hopping to my feet.

"Sure, kid," he'd replied languidly, returning to the couch and sinking down into it.

"No. This is serious," I'd insisted, following him, willing him to get that I wasn't just some pathetic, infatuated boy. "You've got to promise me," I implored sternly. I even got down on my knees in front of him. Practically begging. It would have been humiliating if I hadn't been so desperate that I didn't care one bit.

"I promise," he said uncomfortably, but with an edge in his voice I hadn't heard before. His eyes flashed with all the latent pride and ingenuity of a victor, simmering beneath the surface though long muted by alcohol and terrible memories. He sat up a little straighter and leaned toward me, his voice calculating and clinical. "You're strong, but that won't help you, or her, if they perceive you as a threat and try to take you out right away. Before you have a chance to make your case. So you can't initiate a confrontation."

"But I am strong!" I protested indignantly, unsure where he was going with this.

"I know that. And the judges can know that. But it won't do you much good when a Career is holding you at arm's length with a sword. Hell, if they're good with knives or spears or axes—or even tridents, for God's sake—you won't see them coming!" The words tumble out, as though he's had this on the tip of his tongue all along, as though it's all he sees, but has never had the desire—or reason—to share it.

His eyes turned dark and serious, like mine. "You won't have time to use your strength," he explained with a frown. "So you've got to use your next best asset, that silver-tongued mouth of yours, to buy you some time. Stall."

He saw the confusion and surprise in my face. I didn't see how that was much of a strategy at all. He took a quick drink, building himself up to go on.

"Say whatever you've got to say to get her a head start. That's what will help her the most, in the beginning. Assuming," he paused, eyebrows raised, "you're still stupid enough to be committed to this game plan of yours."

"Of course," I answered, unwavering. I sat back against my heels, watching him. Watching his mind work. It was hard to believe this was the same barely-functional Haymitch who practically dragged himself from Capital obligation to obligation with open disdain—and stops at bars and soft surfaces in between.

"Then keep them from taking off after her for as long as you can. They'll want to, given her score," he said knowingly. "So you've got to talk them down. And," he added, with an edge of cunning, "if you get the chance, misdirect a bit, too."

"Misdirect?" I asked, intrigued, standing to stretch my cramped legs before sitting myself on the couch beside him. "Yah, I could do that. I'll do anything," I agreed eagerly, smoothing my fitted pants though they didn't need it. They were perfect, just like my hair.

"Sheesh, kid," he said, shaking his head before quickly finishing off the second drink. "That's evident."

I started to wonder why he still didn't call me by name, if he could help it. Maybe it was easier that way. Less investment. Less loss to deal with afterward. I shrugged to myself. Whatever motivated him to get the job done—and stick to the deal.

Then he interrupted my musings, a light flashing across his face. "Oh, and if you get the chance to use that good mouth of yours for anything else, take every opportunity," he instructed thoughtfully. "I'm sure they'd love that."

"What?!" I'd asked, startled, flustered by his implication, heat rising in my cheeks. I sat back and shifted nervously, my pants slick against the cushions.

"Ok, this," he said, gesturing to me with his empty glass. "You've got to think about how to play it now so you don't get anxious just because she's involved. You can't be all eloquent with me and turn to mush with her around." He huffed impatiently and scratched himself unabashedly with his free hand. "Use it—this genuine, love-her-to-my-grave nonsense, but don't get distracted by her. Stick to the end game, or you'll do or say something stupid," he'd smirked, walking unsteadily back to the bar.

"You've got to stay focused, or this isn't going to work. I mean," he'd continued, as if to himself, while lovingly caressing the different bottles. Choosing. "We should all pretty much admit now that this whole thing is a long shot, at best. And if I were you, I'd run for the hills, assuming there are some. But keep it together," he'd finished, turning to look at me, holding my gaze with his glare. "Can you do that?"

"Yes. I'll do anything," I'd repeated, clutching my knees again.

"You'll have to lie. And probably kill," he'd said harshly, eyes narrowed, testing me. "Can you do that?"

The resolve in my eyes wavered, and he smirked knowingly, about to turn back to the bar, confident in what he'd assumed all along. When it came down to it, I'd be weak. Like the others. Best to drink it away and give up. Forget the deal.

"Yes," I yelled out, desperate, grabbing his attention. "I know they'd kill me otherwise. And her. And I can't let that happen. If there's anything at all that I can do, I'll do it," I said again, my voice trailing off like a mockingjay echoing a melancholy refrain. "Her life is all that matters to me," I insisted hotly, meaning it, deep down, where the truth of it burned inside me.

"You have to do whatever I tell you to do," Haymitch ordered, bemused mouth twitching as he sauntered back to the couch and flopped into its corner.

"Whatever you say," I agreed, leaning back into the opposite corner, watching the glimmer of intensity fade and drain from his face, appeased by my promise and relaxed by another liquor-induced buzz.

He shook his head again and downed a third of the glass. When he came up for air he licked his lips and observed, "Boy, I think you might be more crazy than me."

"Maybe I am," I conceded wearily, freeing a few buttons on the shirt that suddenly felt so constricting. "But I don't care," I admitted honestly. "Part of me will hate myself for it, but I couldn't live with myself if something happens to her. That would be worse than any other kind of pain."

Haymitch nodded and casually raised his glass to me. "Well, I can guarantee you some of that. One way or the other. Cheers!"

And that was the night we decided I should make my confession to Caesar Flickerman—and that Katniss and I would train separately. There was no turning back then. The plan was set in motion. I'd gotten everyone's attention. Especially hers. I'd used my real feelings to manipulate the emotions of everyone in the Capitol.

Now I just have to initiate the second half of the plan and go into the Cornucopia, into the inevitable bloodbath, and use that same skill with words to convince the Careers I'm actually a cunning liar and, therefore, a useful ally. I'll be lying, that's for sure. Just not in the way I want them to think.

I take a deep breath. I probably am crazy. But I force my eyes open. I force them to focus, now.