Chapter One: The Reaping

As I woke up that morning, I felt an ache in my neck. After an immense amount of tossing and turning, it was not a surprise that when I finally fell asleep, it was in a horribly uncomfortable position. That was how every night was since they brought me back from the Arena. No matter where I slept, whether it was the train, the room at the Capitol, or my house in Victor Village, I slept very little. I didn't mind, for when I did sleep, I had horrible nightmares.

I won the games, but I still paid for making a mockery out of Snow. While it was Katniss took her own life with the berries to fight the system, it was me who screamed and cursed and fought all the way back to the capitol. It was me who may or may not have made the viewers realize that the tributes have hearts. Everyone knew that I only won because the Girl on Fire decided to die a hero, and everyone knew that I was a living reminder of the small flame of rebellion that Katniss left behind.

And for that, Snow killed my family. There was no use in killing Katniss' mom and sister, for it was cruel enough to allow them to live through their pain of their loss.

My thoughts were thankfully interrupted by Effie coming through my door with no knock and no warning. She immediately reminded me that "today is the day" and instructed my style team to get to work on me. Oddly enough, I was thankful. Effie may be annoying to some, but she was a distraction to me.

Twelve-year-old Barnaby Rice was reaped first, and I couldn't watch him walk to the stage. He was already in tears, begging to go back to his mother. It was a typical reaction. The younger ones always cried. Why wouldn't they? They knew they didn't have a chance.

I knew Barnaby from the times that he used to come into the bakery and buy bread for his mom. He was a sweet kid from a sweet family, and it made my stomach churn. No kid deserves to be reaped that young, and unlike Primrose Everdeen, Barnaby didn't have a sibling to take his place. His only brother, Ben, was too old.

Eighteen-year-old Scarlet Flynn was reaped next, and her expression was stoic. She had to have practiced that reaction, because there was no way it was how she actually felt. She took the stage with confidence, as if she were from District One. Her long brown hair blew in the wind with a sense of freedom, and her dark eyes scanned the crowd with indifference. Her dark features were striking against her pale skin.

I didn't realize that I was staring until those big dark eyes were on me. Her eyebrow arched, and I quickly looked away.

Like Barnaby, I knew who Scarlet was too. Everyone knew who she was, but not a single person knew anything about her. She was the enigma in District Twelve, but not for long.

On the train, Haymitch sighed as he poured a drink. He handed it to me before pouring himself one. I took a drink of it without even wincing. It wasn't the first drink I had had with Haymitch since being out of the arena, and it most definitely would not be the last.

"The kid is a goner," he murmured, nodding to Barnaby. Both tributes sat on the other end of the cart. Scarlet started out the window, and Barnaby tried to breathe through his sobs. "The girl has potential, I think."

"Isn't that what you said last year?"

"Touche," he answered, tipping his glass toward me. "But not in the same way."

I raised my eyebrows at him, and he nodded to her.

"Look at her," he said, "You're not blind. She's a beauty and the perfect age. She will get sponsors because they will already be thinking about what they can do to her when she gets out of that arena."

My stomach turned, making me take another gulp of my drink. It's odd to hear these things. I've always known that mentors decide in the beginning who has the potential to survive, but I never thought that they put tributes in categories based off if they could survive, didn't have a chance, or had the potential to be a Capitol prostitute.

"It may not be what you want to hear," Haymitch continues, "But it has gotten girls out of the area before. They go home with the highest bidder."

"Is that really the initiative to get her to fight?" I asked.

"Not everyone is like you, Peeta," he sighed, "Not everyone cares what kind of person they turn into if it means they will survive."

I continued to look at Scarlet from across the room, watching her as she stared out the window with her arms crossed in front of her chest. She was beautiful, that was for sure. Not with that rugged District Twelve beauty, but a classic beauty with high cheekbones and pretty pink lips… Maybe Haymitch was right. Maybe she wouldn't care what kind of person she turned into as long as she made it out of that bloodbath.

And then I watched as her arm snaked around Barnaby, pulling him into her side and letting him cry into her shoulder. Within seconds, he caused the front of her dress to be soaked in her tears, and she didn't seem to mind. All she did was rub his back and brush his dark hair out of his face.

It was then that I realized that I couldn't let her be what she was destined to be. Whether she made it out of the arena alive or not, I was determined to not sell her out as a pretty face.

It's a Quarter Quell, and Snow has yet to announce what will make this game special. The reaping has happened, the tributes are in the Capitol, and he has still remained quiet. It made me wonder if he waited to see the tributes themselves before deciding what torture he would put them through.

Until today, that it.

"For the Third Quarter Quell," Snow announced, looking out at the crowd and into each camera, "The game will be separated into four parts with four different arenas. Each time that six tributes are eliminated, the tributes will be taken out of the area to recover and attend interviews before entering a new arena.

I turned to Haymitch with a confused expression. "That's… nice of him."

Haymitch shook his head, never taking his eyes off of Snow. "No, it's not," he said, "He's prolonging their death, letting them squirm. Don't ever underestimate his choices."

"The can make their own connections," I argued, trying to remain positive, "They can gain their own sponsors."

"And the people of the Capitol can have more time to decide who they would like to sink their teeth into," he said, nodding.

At that, I turned away from him. He was right. This Quarter Quell was going to excruciating.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think. I've been known to take requests! A picture of Scarlet will be on my profile soon.