Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, and I am not making any profit from this story. This is purely a work of fiction using the characters and settings created by the magnificent Suzanne Collins.

Volunteer for Death

I stand on the platform trying with all my might not to show my fear. I try to still the shaking of my hands, the knocking of my knees; I'm not sure how successful I am. My only hope is that my fear isn't showing on my face because the cameramen usually only focus on the tribute's bodies above the shoulders. If I can just keep my face impassive and remote I might just make it through this. Show fear and you won't get sponsors when the time comes, and sponsors are what get tributes through the Games. However, a show of bravery will only draw the other tributes in like flies to some of Greasy Sae's Hob stew.

My eyes wander the crowd and have little trouble finding Prim's head of blonde hair now tucked under our mother's chin. The other girls are still locked in their group but there is no need anymore now that the female tribute has been chosen, or rather volunteered. My eyes skip over the male tributes as Effie Trinket rambles on beside me. Which one of these boys is going to die with me?

Terror clenches my throat tightly. What if it's Rory? Poor little Rory who is the same age as Prim. Rory who is only in the bowl once, just as Prim was. It's the safest me and Gale could make our younger siblings. But no one is safe, are they? Not Prim and probably not Rory. The Capital won't let them be. Can a reaping be rigged to show us that not even the supposed safest among us are truly safe? I never thought a reaping could be rigged before, but I am starting to agree with Gale. Don't put anything past the Capital.

Finally, I notice just as my eyes meet Gale's across the huge divide that Effie is digging through the male tribute's bowl. I turn my gaze to her and watch her pale, near gray, hand swish and sway through the bowl. She is getting a thrill from choosing one and then changing her mind with a high giggle. Her candy pink wig swaying on her head with every high-pitched sound. Her eyes flit to camera after every indecisive move, and I know she is playing it up to the audience. It makes me want to murder her. The Peacekeepers would probably shoot me. It's a nice thought, but then they would likely just take Prim if I was dead. Why choose another when they already have a backup?

Effie's hand clenches around one of the slips of paper, and she draws it slowly from the bowl. I have a horrifying moment where I'm sure it's going to be Rory, maybe even Gale, but the name called is not from the Hawthorne family. The name is one I barely know but the person, the face, the name belongs to is someone I can never forget.

Peeta, Peeta Mellark, the boy who saved my life with a loaf of burnt bread steps forward looking older and more scared than I have ever seen him. If he doesn't get hold of himself that fear is going to be the death of him, but the boy makes no show of controlling himself. He seems to be going to pieces right before the entirety of Panem.

Don't think I'm insensitive, because I'm not. This is a terrifying experience; at least I have the near nonexistent comfort that I volunteered. For Prim, yes, but I could have done like the rest of this grim crowd and stayed silent. Because that's what they're doing. They simply stand and watch with sad, resigned eyes as Peeta walks slowly towards the stage. Once his feet touch this stage it's over. There's no going back. There will be no redemption, no rescue coming because there can be no volunteers after the tribute is on stage.

Peeta has a family out there, two older brothers of reaping age that could take his place. Maybe he's waiting, unwilling to believe that they will allow him to walk to his death. I could tell him it isn't worth waiting for. My volunteering for Prim is something of an oddity. Children far younger than us come and go each year; children with age appropriate, reap-able family in the audience who could take their place. No one is willing to substitute themselves for us tributes, to die in our places. There's no hope for any of us.

Except there might be hope for Peeta, because a stir is being caused in the boy's huddled crowd.

"No," I breathe in horror before fury sweeps my fear away. It ignites inside me like a bottle of Ripper's white liquor poured over a pile of dry leaves. One spark and it's a flash fire. The flames choke my lungs and eat the air until I see dark spots on the edges of my vision. I gulp air through my mouth and it merely feeds the flames. I can do nothing but watch Gale step out of the pack of boys in a halo of red.

"I volunteer as tribute." Gale's voice booms through the silent Square and brings hundreds of wide eyes in his direction. I know what they're thinking. Two volunteers in one reaping? It's never happened in District 12 before. They understand why I volunteered. Everyone loves Prim, and maybe if I hadn't volunteered someone else might have. But, Gale volunteering for Peeta? Especially when twenty-four children go into the Games and only one comes out. If District 12 is to win for the first time since Haymitch Abernathy, one of us is going to have to die. I watch the horror start to dawn on their faces because there is no Katniss Everdeen without Gale Hawthorne and no Gale without Katniss.

How could he? No. How dare he! Not only has he condemned us both to death, for how can two teens from the poverty of District 12 possibly win against the Careers bred and fed for this, but he's now condemned both our families to death. In District 12 starvation is only second to death by the mine. I am never going to be able to erase the image of Prim, my beautiful little Prim, whittled away to nothing but bones encased in tightly stretched skin. Her gorgeous locks of blonde the texture of dry grass and falling from her head. If they are lucky, they won't last long enough to see us both die some horrible and surely gruesome death in the Arena.

My eyes, dull and hopeless, drift over to Peeta. Why is he still crying? Why does he still look so sad? He's free. He has another year of freedom, of life, and there's no guarantee his name will ever be chosen during another reaping. He's one of the luckiest boys in all Panem right this second. What right does he have to cry such tears of sorrow?

A hand slips into mine. It's a hand I know better than I know my own. I can name ever scar that covers that tanned flesh. The slim raised line along his index finger from when I first attempted to teach him to use a bow. The deep gash in the fleshy web of his thumb where his knife slipped while skinning a rabbit. The puckered flesh burnt while working in the mines. I know them all, just as I know the shape and texture of every digit and the gentle slope of his palm pressed to mine.

I don't want to hold his hand with this fury still burning in my chest. I don't want to look at him in fear that he will see the flames searing my eyes red.

Gale leans close to me as Effie wraps up her closing speech. "Smile, Catnip, we're going to kill them. We always did hunt better together." He flashes me a smile of his own with these words.

I clench my jaw to keep the wails at bay and let him squeeze my fingers. Killing them isn't what I am worried about. I am worried about them killing us, about maybe having to kill Gale or him killing me, but most of all I am worried about those we are leaving behind.

As the Capital Peacekeepers urge me into the Justice building I glance back at a sobbing Prim and the pale face of my mother who is all wide eyes and worried lips. They will come to say their goodbyes, and I have the suffocating feeling that this really is our final goodbye even if I somehow manage to find my way home again.

End

Writing has become a once in a while hobby more than a fulltime job for me, so I'm saying this is a one-shot. That doesn't mean I won't add to it if I ever come up with something great, but I don't have that greatness waiting in the wings right this second; I make no promises of any additional chapters. However, if I do add to this story I will try never to end on a full out cliffhanger.

— Mistress —