Author's Note: This is my very first attempt at writing, so any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. When I was reading Catching Fire, I couldn't help imagining what would have happened if Katniss did appear to die for Peeta, but had in fact been stolen by the Capitol. I was surprised when it turned out to happen almost like that, except that Peeta instead was imprisoned. So this is what I imagined would happen. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
We almost missed it. After Caesar showed off my wedding dresses, each more extravagant than the last, I was reaching to shut off the television, assuming it was over. It wouldn't have made a difference anyways. If I had, and we did miss it, I would have still found out one way or another. After all, what is a show without its star? But I didn't shut it off, because I could still hear Caesar talking. Instead of wrapping up about the dresses as I expected, he announces the reading of the card for the third Quarter Quell. Already?
With all twelve districts and the Capitol tuning in, the camera frame switches from Caesar's wide trademark grin, and instead focuses in on President Snow as he pulls out and opens an innocuous white letter, and begins to read: "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."
At first it doesn't sink in. As my mind tries to make sense of President Snow's declaration, I can hear my mother and Prim gasping and falling to their knees, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. I feel immediate concern and want to ask them what's wrong. But my voice is stuck and I can't seem to get a sound out. And just like that, it hits. Existing pool of victors. There's only one female victor currently living in District 12. Me.
I'm going back. That's all I can think. Back to the humiliating parades. Back to the falsely cheerful interviews with Caesar. Back to the Arena. All of a sudden I'm parched, and my tongue is dry, and I remember those first two days of unbearable thirst. A phantom burning crawls up my calf as I recall the blazing pain following my flight from the maelstrom of fire. My hands begin to throb from remembered tracker jacker stingers, and my vision begins to blur. Images begin to assail me. Glimmer's grossly bloated body. The spear protruding from Rue's slight frame. Clove with her indented skull. And through it all, as if in the background, I hear the horrifying sound of the Muttations feasting on Cato's flesh as he screams, and moans, and sobs in agony.
It was supposed to be over. Peeta and I, we were supposed to be free. Wasn't that the whole point of everything? Using Peeta's love and turning it into a TV show gimmick! Killing the other tributes! All of them, children! Forcing the Capitol's hand with those wretched, damned berries! And all for what?! Nothing. Because in spite of it all, or perhaps, because of it all, they're sending me back.
