So, I started this a little while back and decided to give it a go here to see if people like it. :D So, let me know how it is and if I should bother continuing with it.

That would be much appreciated! Commentary and criticism are more than welcome!

And naturally, I own next to nothing. My mind could never create something as complex as the world of Panem. So, all of that belongs to Suzanne Collins! I'm only doing this for my own amusement and maybe the amusement of others, so I gain nothing but something to do in my spare time.

One last note: I didn't write this with the intention of making it one of those stories where the author inserts themselves into the story (as much as it probably sounds like that). Really I just felt like writing from the perspective of someone who has a general knowledge of what's going on and attempt to have fun while doing so. So that's that~

I think that covers everything! Enjoy!

Sensations accompanying the stirring of my consciousness leave me in much discomfort. I don't understand why either. The sheets draping over my body feel rough and unusual. Not to mention I feel a little cold. The combination irritates me and I slip my hand out from under the covers to find my quilt. However, my blind reaching produces nothing and my vague exasperation grows. Looks like I during my sleeping hours it had fallen from my bed. I think to forget the quilt and deal with what warm the sheets provide, but several minutes of trying to forget everything proves useless.

Resisting an urge to groan, I open my eyes. A split second leaves me suspended in a moment I can put no words to.

I realize in a mixture of numbness and horror that the unknown surrounds me. Early morning light illuminates a small creation of four grimy walls that might have been white at one time or another. Against the walls rest shabby contraptions ranging from what appears to be a dresser and cot lying opposite me. The bed's occupied by two figures I can't decipher much about, but there's a cat curled up against one of the bed's occupants. A disagreeable smell permeates the air, but I don't recognize it.

I sit up and find myself staring at the ginger-colored cat. It's quite an ugly thing, too. Almost to the point that I feel sorry for the smashed creature's face marred by a tattered ear and eyes a particularly gross shade of orange. The two of us keep eyes interlocked. It's like I'm trying to decode some sort of hidden message within the accusing eyes of the cat. I don't understand, but a word breathes through my mind. A name that I'm pretty sure my imagination associates with the cat.

Buttercup.

The heavy silence in the room begins to gnaw at me, almost begging me to comprehend the situation. Fully awake from the initial shock, I feel like I should be connecting dots. The adrenaline pounding in my ears accompanies a spike of fear mixing in a way that's completely detrimental to rationalizing the present predicament. Something tells me the cat's name is Buttercup. A notion begins floating in my head that I should be somewhere but know neither where nor why.

Buttercup's narrowed eyes contain some form of accusation in them. But why?

And then it hits me as hard as a blow to the stomach. I don't believe it at first because quite frankly the idea's just plain ol' silly. Impossible. There's no way…

Climbing out of the lumpy bed covered in canvas, I stand on a cool, sullied floor. I look at my feet and grimace at the sight of dirt encircling the nails. My eyes roam to the other bed and the cat.

"No way," I mutter. Fear begins to crawl up my spine and I'm afraid to confirm my suspicions by identifying the characters lying in the bed.

I resort to pinching myself several times to the point that I leave deep indents in my skin. I close my eyes and count backwards, slowly, from ten. I pause before opening my eyes. Nothing changes. Hysteria builds in my gut and twists it in unimaginable contortions. Reason enters my mind in a calming fashion and I manage to keep myself from releasing some form of animalistic scream. Part of me refuses to believe my explanation. I can't trust myself, but my surroundings become increasingly convincing so that it doesn't matter if I have an ounce of faith in my own judgment or not.

I'm in fiction; in a house that isn't mine; in a world that doesn't exist. To top it off, I locate a battered mirror that has clearly seen better days leaning against a wall. The face looking back upon me isn't even the one I know. Gray eyes within the confines of a fair face peer back at me. Pin straight black hair disappears somewhere over my shoulders and I absently touch it. The texture isn't silky but it's far from what I'm accustomed to. I take to examining myself more in general from calloused hands to the feet again.

My idle ponderings leave my superficial curiosity somewhat satisfied, but deeper, more important questions weigh heavily in my mind. How this happened, I don't know. How it's even possible for that matter, I don't know. Understanding eludes me completely, and since I see no way to find an explanation at the moment, I stand there dumbly for a while. After wasting enough time doing nothing, I take to following the instincts instructing me to do this or that. Somehow I naturally know where to find things such as clothing and soon enough find myself dressed with a satchel carrying some cheese over my shoulder.

I feel like I should be rushing, but I make no moves to run as I timidly make my way out of the rundown home known as the Everdeen residence. Outside, I look back upon it to realize the short structure matches all the other adjacent ones standing on either side of the grungy road. The road itself stretching on in either direction. Slowly, I return my eyes to the house I had left where inside sleep Primrose Everdeen and her mother. Gradually, the gravity of the circumstances solidifies.

This is Panem. The street I'm standing on is in District Twelve, one of thirteen areas under the control of the Capitol. Or, twelve areas to be more exact since one had met its demise years ago in a messy rebellion. What completes the thought and leaves me half numb for a moment is realizing that my identity, my appearance is of someone else. I touch my own face and pull an obsidian braid over my shoulder. I roll the end of it between my fingers to feel the roughness of ends in need of trimming.

Only a short period of time passes before I come to turns with this sudden transfiguration of life. While my mind remains my own as far as I can tell, the body isn't my own. No one seeing me will call out my name here.

Anyone who sees me will call me Katniss Everdeen.

I feel like a broken record when I mutter to myself again my disbelief. I stop everything and cover my ears with eyes tightly shut. I count backwards from twenty before increasing the amount to thirty. I pinch myself harder. When I open my eyes, I see my feet still encased in leather shoes meant for Katniss's feet. My rough hands caked in coal dust are still hers and the hair is still a black braid. The street looks the same and the buildings upon it look the same.

Nothing makes sense.

Feeling the urgency to go where I need to be growing more prominent, I let my feet carry me wherever they please. As I stroll along, I continue to run my mind through the motions of trying to decipher the meaning behind all of this. I pass weather-beaten gates that could have been made of dung for all I care. My feet move along on auto-pilot as my mind wanders. I try to recall reality to mind, but it just bleeds into the present. I can't remember how I found myself here. Naturally I would think this is an elaborate dream, but it would have to be one of truly impressive caliber to withstand all my painful pinching. And that's not including the fact that everything feels acutely real. From the clothing I'm wearing to the brilliant cerulean sky above me it gives my doubt little ground to stand on.

Can it really be true? I don't want to think so, but as everything unfolds before my eyes and I approach what comes to mind as being called the Meadow, I find the part of me that is firmly against believing what I'm seeing riddled with holes. Coming to terms with the fact that I can't argue with what's happening at the moment, I wander through the wild patches of weeds and grass. I walk towards some bushes growing along the length of a high chain link fence topped with those loops of barbed wire. I'm on the ground before I realize it and worm my way through a gap in the fence the shrubbery conceals.

I halt my progression and look back the way I've come. The empty streets beyond the Meadow are void of life, a sight I wouldn't have noticed at any rate when I was walking with a preoccupied mind.

This makes no sense, but I find no other options for me except to follow my gut and natural inclinations. What else could I do? Katniss has to be somewhere, so who am I to stop that? I can think along the way to wherever.

With a sense of direction unknown to me, I enter the decently wooded expanse spread before me. The tall trees create an almost perpetual shadow overhead broken by miniscule patches of light. All is quiet and I enjoy the peaceful surroundings. In fact, in almost feels like if I walk just far enough, I'll come out and find reality standing before me. However, no such event happens no matter what turn I make and instead I find myself at a fallen log. From within the log, I mechanically withdraw a bow and stash of arrows wrapped in fabric meant to protect them from the elements. Holding them sends a jolt of uncertainty through me.

It doesn't take an epiphany for me to realize that I have little to no experience with a bow. Katniss might and be beyond phenomenal with one, but me, as in clearly not her, in charge of a weapon spells trouble with a capital T. I can see it now. But maybe...just maybe her body has the reflexes to use it. Muscle memory or something. Instinct? I used that to get me here, so why not?

"Better keep my fingers crossed," I tell myself as I add the equipment to my person. Hoping for a miracle might be a better idea I decide as I continue walking.

An amusing thought that comes to me is that I know where I'm going. Don't quite know why I didn't think of it before. Today must be a hunting day. The person I'm in the process of meeting is Gale Hawthorne. Long time friend and hunting comrade of Katniss. Of course, that means next to nothing to me. I know their stories, but that's all. And after that, the amusement my thought brought me dries up and turns into a horrible lump in my stomach.

I know one thing's for sure and that one thing slices through me like an arctic wind. I stop moving, even breathing. A need to bash my head on a nearby tree takes hold of me.

I'm not Katniss. I don't even think I can be her. Not exactly if at all. In addition, I know things. Too many things. One could almost call me all knowing for the next year or so. Maybe. Depends on what year and day this is. But that doesn't bother me as much as knowing that I'll be having conversations with people that know Katniss and that Katniss knows, but I don't. I know them through her, so to speak. If I can even say that since I doubt Katniss has spent her life speaking to only twenty people here. To be frank, my mind still has difficulties swallowing this. It grows even more problematic as I continue on my way through the forest.

Eventually, I come upon what appears to be the peak of a valley's side. My eyes try to take it all in, but I can only see so much and I quickly become distracted by another presences standing by a formation of rocks.

It's Gale and he's already looking at me. Or, really he's looking at Katniss, but that carries the same connotations, does it not?

Really a truly I get caught off guard by how true it is about the similarities between him and Katniss physically. His hair's midnight black and his ash-colored eyes are identical to those I witnessed in the mirror earlier. His facial structure's completely the type expected of a growing young man, and it's hard to deny his good looks. They really didn't stress that quite enough in writing before. Either that or just beholding the genuine character before me really fortifies the image.

"Hey, Catnip," he says. His voice is fairly deep and more than enough to make it appealing.

My mind processes the name directed to me slowly and my reaction is delayed by my confusion on what I should do. It's not like the conversations between the Katniss and Gale are engraved in my brain or anything. I know their close relationship as friends standing strong at this point and little beyond that. Unable to think fast enough, I walk towards him and feel the muscles in my face work themselves into what I guess was a pleasant expression.

"Look what I shot." I can't help but burst into laughter as he holds up a small loaf of bread pierced by an arrow.

He holds it out to me and I take it from him. Something tells me I should be questioning the unsanitary implications of eating bread that's been pierced with an arrow that's been who knows where, but I ignore it. Instead, I pull out the arrow from the warm loaf. It reminds me of any other plain baked loaf from back home, but that's different here. These people, especially any that live in the Seam, have no luxuries like I have known. Bread, especially the kind like this, is a treat to those who see starvation on a regular basis.

Now what, I wonder to myself, glancing up at Gale who's indifferent gaze returns to me.

"It smells good," I blurt out and hand the arrow and bread back to him.

Remembering the cheese wrapped in basil leaves I had withdrawn from beneath a wooden bowel absently that morning, I fish it out of my bag for presentation. "I brought this."

"Did Prim leave that for us?" he asks.

I nod and feel dumb since I really have no idea. "Yeah, she did."

"Well, thank you, Prim," Gale says despite the fact that Prim is probably still at home sleeping alongside her mother. Suddenly his whole demeanor changes and his voice gains an accent I have never heard before. If I had to guess, it must be his interpretation of one from the Capitol. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" Reaching off to the side, he snatches some blackberries from a bush. "And may the odds—" One of the berries is let loose in a high arc towards me.

Knowing I would probably make a fool of myself trying to catch it in my mouth, I resort to merely catching the berry. Luckily for me, the rest of the phrase falls off my tongue without a hitch. "—be ever in your favor!"

I felt stupid putting emphasis on the silly phrase, but stop caring and instead almost feel disgusted by it. At the moment, I would have rather kept my thoughts steered clear from the source those words derive from, but I can't help it. A heavy feeling of somber weight trickles over me and smoothes out my face completely. Mere hours separate this moment of peace from the end of what could be considered innocence. Today is the day of the reaping. The time when Katniss makes her stand to protect her little sister can only crawl closer. I'm half scared to imagine that perhaps this…change in character will make an impact on the outcome of the drawing, but I try not to imagine that. Fate's fate. The future's set as far as I'm aware and there's no reason for it to change now.

The perspective might change, but I don't think anything else will. At least I sure hope so.

"Catnip, why don't you pick us some berries?"

Gale's voice jolts me out of my thoughts. I nod without really processing what he said. I wander to the blackberry bush I can see and start pulling them off in handfuls along some other various berries from neighboring vegetation. A couple find their way into my mouth, but I keep enough held in my bag to give us a decently sized side to compliment the slices of bread Gale lathers with the goat cheese. It all looks wonderful to me, especially after having whetted my appetite with a handful of berries. I only realized it then, but a hollow feeling prevails in my abdomen.

I hold back any further urges to start mowing through the berries gathered in my satchel and return to Gale. He has since set the bread down where we can sit against the rocks with a splendid view of valley and escape prying eyes. Should there be any. I doubt any exist save for those of animal life out here.

Without agreeing to it out loud, the two of us start on our small meal in silence. The bread and cheese mixes with the taste of berries in my mouth. The mixture is odd, but completely bearable so long as it fills the void known as my stomach. As we eat, the notion that I should feel awkward around Gale buds in the corner of my mind, but doesn't bear any fruit. Rather, it feels natural to sit here with him. It's like sharing a meal with family on a much smaller scale so that it's just a brother and sister trying to ignore the bleak future ahead.

I'm almost ready to make the assumption that maybe there's a part of my consciousness that still bears a part of Katniss because honestly I wouldn't feel this way otherwise. Not that I'm complaining. I rather like it this way where no insistence to speak bothers me. Enjoying the presence of one another is quite satisfying enough despite the lack of an actual friendship between the two of us. But he doesn't know that.

I know fully well there isn't much to be done about that except to forge one myself…which isn't going to happen before the reaping this afternoon. No, sir. It depresses me a little when Gale appears like the kind of young man I would get along with. Somehow. Maybe not in the same way as Katniss, but somehow.

For a moment, a summer breeze caresses my face. It stirs the free grass stretching in all directions until disappearing into the shadows of the forest. The sight of something so rugged and almost familiar warms me even more than the mild wind. Complete with the picturesque sky above, I want to lie down in the grass and watch the clouds laze by. The world could just pause as I indulge in something that's natural for me. No thinking about reapings or how an unpleasant notion of this all being wrong that is beginning to lay siege. I can pretend for a little while, can't I? Logically, there's only so much time to be spent like this.

"We could do it, you know."

The sudden comment from Gale nearly sends me careening over the rocks and down the hill into the valley below. And that's not to say that I wouldn't have minded that, but the initial thought that crosses my mind threatens to color my cheeks crimson.

"Do what?" I ask him in return.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," he says.

"If only something like that were so easy," I mumble quietly with my eyes taking in the bread I've barely made a dent in. "But to just run away seems…like cheating."

"It was only an idea," Gale says in a tone I almost fear as being bitter. Maybe even slightly angry.

"I know," I tell him and can think of nothing to say beyond that. He has no idea how much I would like to just run in general. Run as far and fast as I can until I run myself out of this hallucination.

We relapse into tranquility that for me only touches the surface. It takes several minutes for a thin thread of apprehension to leak its way out of me. Once the minor tension alleviates itself, I resume the gradual filling of my stomach, but find that the end of the meal of the meal is hardly the end for me. I could have continued eating, but I settled with what I lays before me. Gale finishes shortly before I do, so we are soon just basking in sunlight and relative silence overlaying the sound of rustling trees.

"Have any plans for the rest of the morning?" I find myself asking.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight."

Something nice for the rest of Katniss's family for that matter, I think to myself. I'll probably be speeding off towards the Capitol long before then now won't I? Assuming this wrapped illusion lasts that long that is.

Following Gale's lead like a hawk, I find myself gathering quite a few goodies to take back home ranging from fish to plenty of strawberries. The strawberries themselves pique my interesting and make me yearn for some sugar to dip them in. However, sugar's probably far from being abundant and I stick to picking them from a bush surrounded in mesh netting like Gale. From there, we agreed it's time to be heading back into the district. As we make the journey back, I wonder if Gale notices any differences in Katniss. Since he has yet to ask me why I'm following him instead of walk beside him, I figure I shouldn't complain. The less inconspicuous the better, right?

Instead of heading in the direction of home which I can almost remember, Gale takes us to another area of town that I assume is the black market of District Twelve, the Hob. From the picture initially implanted in my mind, the real Hob doesn't appear quite as…well, sketchy. Maybe not one of the most comfortable of settings, but given how pretty much every last building here already has the appearance of needing dire renovation, the Hob doesn't stand out. While there, we trade half of our fish for some bread and then two more for salt. An old skeleton of a woman appearing to be on the verge of falling apart by the name of Greasy Sae takes some greens Gale had dug up and compensates us with some paraffin. Partaking in the black market leaves me a little wary, but why care? People have to eat somehow here. Survival in a word like this is tricky and it's most definitely not too hard to imagine why.

After our stop at the Hob, we wind our way through practically vacant streets. Gradually, the scenery improves slightly as homes and structures appear better kept. Behind a particular one, we stop at the backdoor. When the door opens, a girl around my age greets us wordlessly. She's slender and clothed in a pearlescent, white dress that looks like it costs quite a bit. Her golden blond hair is drawn back and held by a rose colored ribbon I can barely see, but it does look nice.

Madge.

"Pretty dress," Gale tells her.

Madge gazes at Gale dubiously. Her lips form a line before curving into an amicable smile. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

It's hard to tell whether she's being serious of sarcastic about it, but I suppose it doesn't matter. I know that despite the only faint connection between Katniss and Madge that she's a good girl. Maybe a friend.

"You won't be going to the Capitol. What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old." That same bitterness from before seeps into Gale's tone, only increasing when he catches notice of the pin attached to Madge's dress made of pure gold. The mockingjay pin.

If only Katniss had known now what role that symbol would come to play in the future. Looking at it now, it seems so harmless.

Without really being consciously aware of it, I'm talking. "That's not her fault."

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," he says in reply.

As I exchange half the strawberries we had collected for some money, Madge keeps her reserved face trained on me. What Gale said froze any warmth in her.

"Good luck, Katniss."

"You, too," I return just as she closes the door.

Gale and I begin our return home. I want to reprimand him for acting so indignantly towards Madge, but I hold my tongue at the sight of his brooding visage. He has a right to feel that way since the difference in fortune between those who live in the Seam like Gale and Katniss and those who don't like Madge leave distinctly different lives. There's no arguing there. People of the Seam struggle on a daily basis to survive and to have enough food to see the next day while those from families like Madge tend to be free of the reoccurring battle.

If I remember right, Gale and Katniss have placed their names in multiple times into the reaping for a reward that feeds the family at least something for a year. Because of that, the chance of either one of us getting picked as contender for the Hunger Games is much higher than that of Madge who only puts her name in as required by what I assume is law.

At the point where I guess we separate, we split the rest of our spoils from the morning.

"See you later?" I ask with a step in the direction my feet decide I need to go.

"Yeah," he says, traces of his anger still evident. Suddenly, his voice evens out into nothing when he then says, "Wear something pretty."

Gale leaves me after that. Unsure where I am, my feet seem to know enough to guide me home. As I go along on my way, I can't help but wonder if he said that because we had seen Madge dressed daintily before in white. I try not to think about it too much as I feel I'm getting closer to home. Or, at least Katniss's home. It's hard to discern why I feel like it's home because I know in all technicalities that it's not.

Maybe I was right to formulate the hypothesis that maybe part of Katniss's mind exists within my own. Why else would I feel the way I do and know where to go without actually possessing the knowledge myself?

"I shouldn't complain about it," I whisper to myself.

For all I know, it's going to be that part of me that'll keep my alive. Actually, I take that back. It will. I know next to nothing about survival in the woods. Whatever keeps me knowing what I don't know had better keep up or the Hunger Games will have a different victor than before. Or, two victors to be more precise. Whatever.

And actually, all of this is hanging on the chance that this is real. Despite recent happenings, I can't shake the Doubting Thomas in me. Who would when this really could be some elaborate delusion?

Maybe I'm delirious.

Approaching home stirs a bout of apprehension. On the chance this is all real, I'm either about to pull off a miracle or make Katniss look like she has grown a second personality.

It's like the whole episode with Gale all over again. From the minute I see them I know this is going to be difficult to swallow. Both Primrose, otherwise known as Prim, and Katniss's mother differ in appearance from the other few residents of the Seam I have seen. While skin tone doesn't have much variation here, both have hair are similar in color as Madge's. Gold and soft in appearance with eyes similar to the summer sky outside.

Prim greets me energetically, dressed in a skirt and blouse unsuited for her skinny frame. Despite that, it appears that some adjustments have been made to remedy the issue, but in a few minutes it becomes evident that the tails of the shirt don't want to stay tucked in the skirt. Katniss's mother, a woman who still retains some youthful beauty, is clothed in a rather pretty dress. Something about it seems to make her seem out of place in the decrepit home we stand in.

Greetings aside, little else is said to me and I wash myself in a tub of lukewarm water soon enough. I make do with since it's at least not cold. I even do my best to remove as much dirt and mess from the morning as possible. The hair comes next, though I feel I could do with washing it again when I've done it twice already. When I'm done, a blue garment of notable beauty awaits me and shock creeps into my mind as I realize it's one belonging to Katniss's mother. The fabric is soft to the touch as I put it on and I'm pleased with the feel instantly.

"Is this for me?" I ask, gazing at the dress that now sits on my scrawny figure.

"Of course," she replies and approaches me with a towel for my hair. "Let's put your hair up, too."

I let her do as she pleases, aware of the traces of antagonism floating inside me. I know Katniss is mistrustful of her mother, if not downright resentful of the woman, but I can't find it in myself to show any of it. The minutes tick by and before I know it, she has braided all of my hair to my head in a style I can't possible describe as anything short of gorgeous. Not too fancy and far from plain. If I couldn't recognize myself in the mirror before, even the face I saw this morning seems completely different now.

"You look beautiful," Prim whispers to me, gazing at the same figure I'm looking at in the mirror right now.

I find myself questioning the reality of this again and nearly reach out to touch my reflection.

"I can barely recognize myself," I admit. And Prim will have no idea how extensive that statement is.

My arms find their way around the tiny body of Prim in an embrace increasing in tightness. She feels so minuscule to me and impossibly vulnerable. Knowing that her name is going to be drawn from the bowl only causes that feeling to mushroom. While no one else may know, I'm certain without a doubt that no harm is going to come to her. A feeling burns strong in me that I'll sacrifice myself for her. The determination is far from being my own, but one look at the small girl kills even so much as a second guessing.

Prim's too young. Heck, every child's name put into the reaping is too young to be wasted in such a barbaric fashion. No questions there.

Animosity begins to swell in me, but I fight it down enough to let Prim go. The back of her shirt has gone rogue again and I instantly tend to it myself.

"Watch your tails," I tell her gently.

"I will!" she pipes up with a smile that makes me want to forget all about reapings and Hunger Games.

She really is precious, isn't she?

"Let's eat!" Prim says and takes my wrist.

A small meal of bread and milk awaits me. When I even try to think about eating it, I lose all will to even attempt to put something in my system. But when I remind myself that this is the last meal Katniss ever has with her family for quite some time, I make an effort to swallow a decent amount of food. Eating with the two is quiet, but far from peaceful. Dread lingers in the air, only alleviated by a glimmer of hope that the names Katniss and Primrose will remain in the bowl.

If only they knew that all of this can't be real. It just can't.

While I know too well it can't, so far I'm not waking up.