This idea popped into my head Friday night, and argh I wanted the whole thing to be up this weekend, but... well. You know the story; it's still the same.

I hope you all enjoy it.

Ladies and gentlemen, let's begin the Countdown.

I don't own the Hunger Games.

The Capitol is unfathomably nice to me the first few days of my capture. It doesn't take me long to realize what's going on, though. I am a pig being set up for slaughter.

"You can have anything on the table," they told me.

I stare at the fully loaded dinner table in front of me. The amount of food on the table is fit to feed an army, but it's all for me. There is a single silver plate in front of me, with an intricate golden floral design on it. They let me eat once a day, I think on purpose: whenever I get to the table I need to eat. I need to eat all the delicious foods they have laid out for me. They give me more than an hour. It's impossible to resist.

"Eat quickly, now," says the guard, on one day. "We have something ready for you."

"Something," I repeat, playing with a chicken leg. "That sounds ominous."

The guard doesn't laugh. "It's an interview."

"Like I said," I say, turning back to my food, "it sounds absolutely terrifying, and I think I might take my time."

"You have ten minutes to eat."

Of course.

I don't respond, but the guard leaves anyway. I eat more chicken, a plateful of vegetables, and a croissant. The croissant is soft and buttery but somehow it tastes nowhere near as good as the poorly made ones we have at home—because after all, those ones are made at home. I bite into it, closing my eyes. I sit still, imagining that maybe I'm sitting on a stool at home, stealing bread that we're supposed to be selling. I wonder if I believe in it enough, it will be true.

But then I open my eyes.

An hour and a half later, my eyelids feel heavy with make-up, and it feels as though it's dangerous to flinch. Everything from the cutlery to the upholstery is overdone in the Capitol, I muse as I settle into the chair they've set out for me. It feels so breakable, which is weird. It's an armchair, after all. Also, is it strange to feel awkward to be comfortable in a comfy chair?

"We just want you to be honest, now."

I look up at Panem's president and smile. "I'm sure you don't."

President Snow smiles back, trained just as much as I am to look agreeable. I look into his eyes, though, and feel nowhere close to comfort. "No, I honestly do want you to just tell Caesar the truth. We just want you to say whatever it is you want."

"I'm trusting you have some sort of plan to turn this your way, of course," I say, leaning back in my seat.

"Well," he says.

Caesar comes into the studio. "Oh, sorry." He makes to move out, but President Snow stops him.

"No, we were just finishing up, Caesar," says President Snow. I try not to roll my eyes. More like he didn't want to answer me. "Are we ready?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

President Snow stands up straighter, fixing his tie, even though he's not going to be on screen. I wonder if he's nervous. I glance at the camera. Technically speaking, Katniss is on the other side of the glass. I lick my lips nervously and close my eyes. Katniss, I think. Don't let go of that thought, Peeta Mellark...

Caesar sits on the chair across from me. He's dazzling in an uncomfortable way, wearing a sparkly suit and an inch layer of make up on him. To me, he looks like a sad attempt at a clown. I'm sure that in some strange way this is considered fashionable in the Capitol. I settle myself comfortably back in my seat (Katniss), and smile at him. He smiles back. Caesar is ready for the camera, too.

"And, you're on, in three, two..." The camera man holds up a thumb.

Caesar beams in that direction before giving me a long look. "So... Peeta... welcome back."

I smile a little. "I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar." I'd thought so, too—I'd hoped so. Much to my bitter disappointment, I am not done doing interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

"I confess, I did," says Caesar. "The night before the Quarter Quell... well, who ever thought we'd see you again?"

He seems to be thinking the same way I am. "It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," says Peeta with a frown.

Caesar leans in a little. It's meant to show that he is a friend of mine. That we're close. That there would be secrets between us. It's subtle, but I recognize it. All of this interview is a lie.

"I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive."

That, too, is a lie, but even that strikes something in me that makes me want to cry. My child. In my fantasies the child still exists; she is mine and she is Katniss'. I imagine she would be more like Katniss, with a grey eyes, dark hair, and a fighting spirit. I press my lips together, casting my eyes down at the upholstery of the chair. "That was it," I say as my finger traces the pattern idly. "Clear and simple. But other people had plans as well."

I look up again, tightening my jaw. If I had known about the plan. If Katniss and I had known... I suppose it's a good thing that we weren't in the planning. Otherwise this probably would hurt even more. And it makes Katniss is safer... but then we'd have been prepared, and none of this would have happened.

"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena?" Caesar asks. "Help us sort a few things out."

I nod, but I don't like remembering it. I exhale slowly, arranging my memories in my head. The fear comes back to me, but I soothe myself. I must be strong. I need to be, for Katniss. So I tell Caesar—and all of Panem—what it felt like to be in that arena. What it felt like to plan your death, and only because you wanted another to survive in your place. How every hour, every second, was a countdown to and reminder of my death.

Dimly, I think about how I didn't care, because Katniss would live. I recall forcing the idea of my child in Katniss' stomach, and how I almost wanted it to be true, if it meant that both of them would live. The idea of my child—being Katniss' as well—enthralled me. It still does. I imagine it would be a girl. Maybe she'd like to bake. I would love that. The idea of it now sends a pang through me. Baking. With my daughter. A carbon copy of the girl I love.

Eventually, my conversation with Caesar gets away from me. I am agitated with the reminder of my radical failure. I did not mean to get separated from Katniss. I did not want to get separated from Katniss. But I was, and now I am in the hands of the Capitol.

Caesar finishes by asking my thoughts on the war.

What a question.

I want to scream at him. This is ridiculous and stupid and why are we even inhabiting this planet when we are so horrible. Instead, tiredly, I ask for a cease-fire, and then I ask to go back to my quarters to make a thousand more card houses.

As the guards escort me back to my quarters from the studio, there is more on my mind than just war, though.

The guards notice it. One asks, "What's so funny?"

"Funny? Not funny," I say.

"What's with the smile?"

"Is it a crime?" I ask.

The guard narrows his eyes.

"Can you imagine me being a dad?" I ask as they shove me into my room. I turn around to my guards, fully expecting an answer. "You think I'd be good?"

Then the guard smiles. "I guess you'll never really find out."

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