Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Series; all you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins.

A/N: So, after watching the first Hunger Games film and finding out it was a book adaptation, I decided to read the series. Needless to say I loved it, and decided on trying a fan-fiction about it. So far, it's just an idea. Hopefully you'll like it. Reviews are very much appreciated.

Happy reading

Chapter 1

THE NEW REGIMEN

The night is dull, there's no breeze and the stars remain unseen upon the skies. There are no sounds, no lights, nothing but the passing of minutes that go by as silent as if they don't even exist. It feels like the world has stopped, sucked in its breath and just decided to watch as the tears that preferred never slipping, escape his blue eyes.

His breathe is slow and painful as he watches an empty television screen, as if he's waiting for it to tune alive and tell him that the past days haven't been real, that it's all a lie, that he doesn't have to fear for his family's sake, that she hasn't snapped, that she hasn't been arrested and locked away.

But the TV remains dead; the symbol of the New Capitol doesn't appear. President Paylor's face doesn't show. She will not speak reassuring words to him, to us; and his semblance never seemed darker.

"Dad?" a small voice breaks the silence, and his sad eyes, absent of the joy they have held since I can remember, fall upon Piper. "Dad, when can we go see mom?"

He doesn't answer right away. He glances back at the TV for a second and smiles sadly at my sister before he holds his hand out, asking her to approach him. I watch her take small steps toward him, her long dark brown hair falling messily along her back, her eyes, blue as his, redden by the tears that refuse to stop falling.

"I don't know, cupcake," he says as he rubs the back of his nineteen-year-old daughter, while she sits next to him, placing her head on his shoulder.

I watch them cry together for our absent mother and refuse to feel bothered by it. I will not cry; I'm not a baby. I'm strong, unlike Piper. So I turn my back to my broken family and mean to go back to bed, but his voice stops me.

"Kaleb?"

I look behind me to see my father's hand reaching out to me, wanting me to join them. I look coldly at his hand, then at his face and then at Piper's. I don't mumble a word; I just ignore the gesture and go back upstairs, where the nightmare that has been haunting me for days awaits me. That nightmare responsible for my broken family, responsible for the un-forgiveness I feel towards them; towards my father, towards Piper, towards my mother especially.

That same nightmare in which her grey eyes open wide after she realizes what she tried to do. A nightmare that I will gladly miss when a brand new one filled with revenge and guilt, replaces it.

.

.

.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?"

"Yes,"

"Alright," I hear my father reply quietly as he shuffles around the living room, looking for his scarf.

I stare outside the window while a small, tanned boy in a blue bike makes his way through the wet pavement, rushing by our street throwing today's newspaper. The rolled up paper he throws last hits Haymitch's door with a dry thud and falls to the porch, where it is bound to stay all day. I watch the boy get on with his job and feel bothered by the normalcy of everything this horrid morning.

"Here," dad says just as I turn to go have breakfast with disdain polluting my brain.

I take the signed permission slip I was supposed to give my history teacher last week, when he gave us the piece of paper that requested our parents' permission to go on a field trip to District 2 today. I say nothing to the man handing me the paper and walk over to the kitchen, where Piper is finishing a cup of tea.

"You should come," my sister says softly, not looking away from her now empty mug, like she was embarrassed to say it looking at me in the eye.

"I'm not going to," I reply harshly just as our father walks in and stares at me from the door frame.

"She's your mother," he says patiently, most likely knowing that I'll say the same thing I always say whenever either one of them brings Katniss up.

"I don't care."

I watch him stare at the bruises on my neck, letting out a long sigh. He no longer cringes at the sight of the injuries she left behind, but I can tell that they will probably never stop bothering him, even after they are long gone.

We say nothing else to each other for the next few minutes. I eat my toast quietly, he sips his tea quietly and Piper just sits there… quietly as well.

It's been a week since Katniss was institutionalized for the psychotic episode that almost got me killed, and her being locked away seems to have created more tension between my family and me than the fact that she tried to kill me.

"You don't have to go to school today if you don't want to," dad says, his face calm and kind, as if my behavior for the past days wasn't enough to upset him.

"You don't have to go to the nut-house if you don't want to," I tell him back looking at him in the eye, not in the witty manner I've been using against him and Piper, not in the ungrateful and disrespectful tone I keep talking to him in, but in the tone a little boy uses when he asks in slight desperation if Santa Claus is real.

"Kal…"

"Good luck today, dad," I say rather coldly before I jump off my chair and walk out of the kitchen leaving an unfinished breakfast behind me.

I sprint upstairs and lock the door shut before sliding against it and sitting on the floor.

I stay there for a few minutes, unmoving, trying to think only of my own breathing until I hear ever so faintly the main door close behind my father and Piper. I stare at the blank wall in front of me, trying not to feel like the scumbag I've acting like lately.

I do not intend to harm my family with my words or actions. I don't want them to hurt, but I feel overwhelmingly confused at times, and I don't know how I'm supposed to get over what's happened.

I know my mother is sick, unstable and that she doesn't really want me dead. I know that a person with so many horrid scars, beyond the ones you can see, can't be held responsible for how they react to certain things. But I can't help but hurt at the thought that my own mother tried to kill me, regardless of how sick she may be.

I stand up after too many minutes died in silence and open the closet door to look for a scarf or anything to cover my neck. I would rather stay home than go to school, where most likely everyone knows what has happened. But if I stay I'll just think about it, and I don't really want to spend my day reliving the worst seconds in this short life of mine.

I take a blue scarf Piper gave me last Christmas from the rack and mean to put it on, but as soon as my eyes fall upon my reflection in the inside of the closet door, I stop dead.

The bruises look worse than what I imagined. I haven't looked at myself in the mirror since Katniss was taken away. I guess she did more harm than the first glance suggested.

I touch my fingertips to my bruised collarbone and feel like throwing up the three bites of toast I ate earlier. They don't hurt that much physically, but emotionally, they feel like a thick rope chocking me to death. It feels as if she had never moved her hands, as if no one ever stopped her; as if she was still clinging to my neck, crushing my bones with hers.

I don't think I'll ever understand what happened that night. I'll never know what upset her so that she felt the need to end my life.

The doctors say she'll regain her sanity sooner or later. According to Piper, who has been handling this whole affair rather well, maybe then I will be able to ask Katniss for a reason. I don't think I ever will, though. I don't want to see her again as long as I live.

I will never talk to her again. I will never see her the same way. And no matter what my father or Piper say, I will never forgive her.

They don't understand.

To Piper it's easy to pretend that Katniss' psychotic episode isn't as grave as it actually is. She will never understand the horrible, horrible feeling of being battered by your own mother. She doesn't know how it feels like to have the same hands that carried you when you couldn't walk, the same hands that patted your back when you accomplished something, the same hands that comforted you when you got hurt, wrapped around your neck trying to keep you from ever taking another breathe.

The thought of the woman, who gave me life, trying to take it away, is sickening beyond what words can describe.

My father, on the other hand, can only understand her.

He knows what's like to lose control over oneself. He knows what's like to hurt others without really meaning to. He knows, because he's done it. Because he too, once tried killing the woman he loved the most, when the old Capitol had hijacked his memories and turned him into a machine programmed to kill Katniss Everdeen.

Nevertheless, he knows what's like to be in her shoes, not mine. He wasn't the same kind of victim I am. He'll never know how difficult it is to get past it, or that at least to me, for now, seems simply impossible.

I close the closet door harshly, tired of watching my reflection look weak and fragile. There's no point in pondering about things that can't be taken away or undone, so I just grab my jacket and my bag from the floor and exit my room.

As I walk outside my house, I can't help feeling grateful towards the weather for giving us such a cold autumn. I tightened the scarf in charge of hiding the events of the past week and start walking through puddles to school.

"Hey," I suddenly hear just as I walk through the gates of Appalachia's secondary school.

"Hey, Nash," I greet a tanned boy as he swings one of his arms around my shoulders in the most carefree manner possible.

"Thought you weren't coming today."

"I have a field trip," is all I bothered saying.

"Nat told me 'bout that," he says "Still, I thought you'd lock yourself up after… you know."

I don't bother replying to that, after all, I don't owe Nash Dimllet anything but common courtesy. He's nothing close to a friend to me; he's just some kid who happens to be my girlfriend's younger brother. Although, sometimes, he seems to forget that and goes on and on about things he shouldn't really have an opinion on.

Like now.

"… because, you know, she's sick," he's saying just as I finally spot my history teacher while he calls out for my classmates to start getting onto the yellow bus that will take us to the train station.

"Talk to you later, Nash," I cut the kid off mid-sentence and hurry towards Mr. Treass.

"Oh, Mellark," the bald history teacher says in surprise as soon as I reach him. I think he wasn't expecting to see me today. "I thought you'd be sitting this one down."

"Why?" I know the reason he said that, but I still play dumb.

"Well…" he says, uncomfortably. "You never gave me your permission slip."

"Here it is," I hand him the piece of paper my dad signed earlier today, just as I start to feel people staring at me.

"Yes, yes," he says as his forehead begins to shine with sweat. The reason behind his nervousness I don't really know. "But I'm afraid there's no room in the bus for you."

I stare at him blankly, trying to think now of a way to get out of the school undetected. Maybe I shouldn't have come in the first place.

"London is not coming Mr. Treass," a sweet, small voice says then, by my left. "She called me this morning. She's sick."

Nat flashes our teacher a charming smile, with not a single drop of doubt. She then looks at me, flashes the same smile and winks.

She's probably lying.

"Oh," Mr. Treass sighs in relief, though I'm not sure why. "Well, then, I guess it's your lucky day, Mellark."

He then checks Natalie's name from the list of students that are going to the trip, writes something next to London's name and writes down mine at the bottom of the page.

As soon as he nods at us, Nat gets on the bus and I follow her suit. She takes my hand and intertwines her fingers with mine while she eyes the seats still available. We end up sitting at the back of an almost packed bus, while everyone already seated looks at me briefly before returning to their conversations or books.

I mean to ask Nat if London really called her, but I highly doubt she did. It'd be silly to think London Hawthorne would want to go on a fieldtrip to the same district she's from. She probably already knows everything there is to know about the military base we're visiting, since her father worked there for who knows how long.

I look out the window while Nat's hand still clutches mine. The bus has started to move already, and I can see the school move slowly past us. Some of the trees behind the building remind me of those lying in the woods, beyond the fence. London's probably out there, by some pond, either hunting or just avoiding people over all.

"How have you been?" Nat asks just as the bus starts gaining some speed.

"I'm fine," I reply, still glancing outside the window.

"You don't look fine," she says quietly, just as I turn to her. "I'm sorry; I won't ask anything if you don't want me to."

She looks at my scarf, most likely knowing that under it I hide some bruises, and I can tell she's not sure how to address the matter. But that's fine, had it happened to her, I wouldn't know what to tell or ask her either.

"It's alright," I say, smiling a little. "I am fine, though. They're fading away already."

She nods briefly and returns her almost black gaze to me before giving me a shy smile.

"How is she?" she asks a little more relaxed, leaning her head on my shoulder.

"Piper says she's better," I reply briefly. "She and dad are visiting her."

"I thought Piper was out of the country."

"She came back for the week," I say, noticing Nat's tanned hand is still in mine, and I don't know whether I want to let go or squeeze it tighter. "She's leaving sometime between today and tomorrow."

"How's your dad?" she asks a minute later.

"I'm not sure," I reply honestly. "I can never really tell what goes on in his head."

She doesn't ask anything else after that, and I'm grateful for it. I don't feel uncomfortable talking to Nat, but I am wary when it comes to what happened between Katniss and me. If I could avoid even thinking about it, I would, that's kind of the sole reason why I came to the fieldtrip today. Although, I'd be lying if I said that the chance of seeing Nat didn't cross my mind while I decided whether to come or not.

I look down at my shoulder, where her head still rests. Her eyes are closed and her breath is even. Her dark hair covers her face slightly and I try to put some of it away, but it keeps coming back.

Natalie Dimllet is not someone that catches everyone's attention. She doesn't wear extravagant clothing and her hair is rather plain compared to those extreme haircuts and colors that some girls use in other districts. She likes to wear little make-up and prefers the scent of soap over perfume. She looks quite old-fashioned and like the type of girl that doesn't have many opinions.

But she's probably the sweetest person I've ever met. She doesn't judge, and keeps things to herself to avoid hurting people's feelings. She smiles a lot and her voice is soft and calming. She's caring and, unlike everyone I know, she never cared who my parents are. She never expected anything out of me, and I like her for that.

I wouldn't go as far as to say that I love her, because I don't. I'm just a clueless seventeen year-old who knows nothing about life, let alone love. Nevertheless, I care for her like I care for no one else.

"Alright everyone, I ask you to get out in order and make a line near the bus, please," Mr. Treass suddenly says and I realize we just arrived at the train station. "I'll hand you your tickets then."

My classmates slowly get out of the bus with no order whatsoever, making the history teacher sigh in resignation. I wake Nat up and we get down. We make it to the now forming line Mr. Treass wanted and stand last.

There are very little people at the train station, since its Wednesday. Shipping is usually done on Mondays and if anyone ever wants to visit a district such as 12, they usually come on weekends. Not that District 12 is that bad. Things have gotten better in the past decades. Poverty has gone down substantially and there are other things to do than work on the mines, but the air is still sooty and we still are slightly behind in technology compared to the rest of Panem.

"Please, do not lose your tickets," Mr. Treass starts saying as I eye the station more thoroughly.

I know that my dad and Piper must have caught the early train to District 3, but I still feel like at any turn, either one of them will suddenly appear and they'll try to manipulate me into visiting Katniss.

But my paranoia goes unjustified and before I expect it, our train comes in sight.

The ride ends up rather uneventful, and apart from some more stares, longer than before, nothing is worth noting throughout the thirty minutes it takes the train to leave the station in 12 and arrive to District 2.

There's a lot more people here though, and it becomes much more difficult to stay within our group. Slowly I drift from everyone, being pushed and tossed by the mass of people at the station right after I step outside the train.

I shouldn't have let go of Nat's hand.

I can't see her or Mr. Treass. I really can't see anyone I can recognize, any face I could possibly know gets lost in the hurricane of colors and weird fashion statements that define the residents of the station. I try not to move much, in the hope that I'll be able to find my group as soon as the station clears out. If it ever does, that is.

I look around, meeting multicolored gazes and even though people here can't recognize me as a Mellark, I still hug my jacket closer to my body and wish I had worn a hoody instead.

To live secluded from most of the country was definitely the wisest decision my parents could have made. This whole ordeal would have been quite a disaster if my face had been printed on the papers more than once.

I try not to get paranoid and as I'm convincing myself that none of the people staring at me know who I really am, I get collided with and almost hit the ground.

"Oh," I hear a girl say, "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

I turn to meet a girl that looked like she came out of one the fashion magazines that Piper likes to read. Her hair is really short on the sides, long at the top, blonde with a few strikes of pink. Her lip is pierced and she has a tattoo on her neck. She wears a leather jacket and torn jeans. Although her whole appearance is rather aggressive, she gives me a big smile and apologizes again.

"It's alright," I say, smiling back, though maybe not as wide.

"Kaleb!" I hear Nat call out and see her a few feet behind the girl.

She looks back and also spots Nat, and then she looks back at me, not smiling this time. She gives me this weird look, as if she's trying to find something on my face, but has no time to. I nod at her once and walk past her, to Nat.

"Are you alright?" I'm asked as soon as I take hold of Natalie's hand again.

"Yeah," I reply, looking back.

The girl isn't there anymore and I sigh in relief. I have seen that kind of face one too many times not to know what comes afterwards. Usually, I don't feel bothered when I'm recognized, but today I do. I don't want to be pointed at in such place, far from my home, especially since I've made headlines again for being almost murdered by 'The Mockingjay' herself.

I should have stayed home.

"Dimllet, over here!" I suddenly hear and catch Mr. Treass by the exit of the station.

Nat and I hurry to the glass doors and find our teacher and the rest of the class. Soon enough we get on another bus, much more sophisticated this time, and are taken to an old military base, away from the glass and steel train station, away from the girl with the blonde and pink hair.

A few minutes later, we approach a concrete and glass building that was used as a peacekeeper 'factory' called The Nut&Nut, back in the day when Snow was still President. It used to be secret, hidden and overshadowed by the district's main production. After the war and its destruction, the place was reconstructed and has been a museum since. It displays old commands and guns, a few pictures and deteriorated equipments.

We arrive at the building, and I can't help but feel uneasy. For a museum, the steel structure looks too severe, and I almost expect to see a formation of fifty strong marching out of the main gates. The base doesn't look that big from the outside though. I know for a fact that there are only two stories above the ground, and the rest lie beneath our feet. After all, this was a secret training center; it had to look as small as the typical brick factory.

As the bus stops in front of the main gates, Mr. Treass, once again, asks everyone to cooperate and exit the vehicle in order; which we all know, won't happen. The man should really consider start behaving strongly towards his students. It's because he's nice and comprehensive, that in times like this, nobody will listen to him.

I hop out after Nat and start walking towards the glass doors of the base along with my classmates. I hear Mr. Treass saying something about finding our tour guide and walking off through another door, where, apparently, we can't go.

I look around the foyer at all the guns and knives hanging in display, not really interested in any of them. I'm not sure why the school plans a trip to this place every year. We all know what happened; we all know it was terrible, we all know we should be grateful. So, is it really necessary to display all the weapons that tore the country apart; that killed thousands; that spilled the blood of more than those who died?

I walk around, slightly disgusted at the glorified weaponry around me and suddenly hear a very low humming, undetectable for those who don't have trained ears.

Katniss used to take me to the woods quite often when I was younger, while Piper spent the day at the bakery with dad. She taught me how to move through the wilds, how to hear, how to understand nature. Only a hunter, like me, would hear that humming.

I walk cautiously towards the sound. It seems to come from a small room at the left. I walk in to find a tall, lean podium right in the middle of the room, where a dark, sleek bow lays. The closer I step, the stronger the hum gets, as if it's calling out to someone, anyone that would save it from oblivion.

I reach out to the bow, but before I can lay a finger on it, the humming stops, and so do I.

"Did you know that bow was specially designed for Katniss Everdeen?"

"What?" I ask the voice that came out of nowhere and turn to find a pair of glasses that are too big for the face they frame.

The face belongs to a kid that doesn't look much older than me; in fact, he doesn't look that much older than Nash. He's tall, freckled and very thin, with shaggy auburn hair, styled of course, like every other common kid in this district. He's looks rather normal (except for the oversized glasses), with a striped shirt, plain jeans and sneakers not too different from mine.

"She killed a military named Coin over twenty years ago with it," the boy in glasses says, not bothered by the fact that he scared the hell out of me.

I step away from the bow just as he steps closer to it.

"I believe it was the last time it was used." He says as he eyes the weapon with admiration.

He didn't say anything I didn't already know.

I have known about that bow since I was ten, but I have never seen it. Katniss and my father told Piper and me it had been destroyed. I never expected to see it here, even less having a room for itself.

"Why is it here?" I ask the back of the boy, not really expecting an answer.

But the kid turns around with a small smile on his face. He looks like a poet who just found his muse.

"What?"

"Funny you ask that. Most people think it's normal that the bow remains in military hands, but it isn't," he then says, his smile a little bigger. "The engineer that designed it made it for her as a gift, not just a weapon. The military have no right of possession on it. Technically Katniss Everdeen should have kept it, at least as a batch of honor after her discharge-"

"But she wasn't discharged," I reply, looking at the bow, almost hopping it would start humming again, before looking back at the kid.

My father and Katniss exiled themselves out after she killed Coin, they weren't given a ceremony or batches, they were just let go.

"No, she wasn't," he says narrowing his brown eyes at me. "How do you know that?"

There's slight suspicion in his voice, so I decide to be honest to a certain extend.

"I'm from District 12," I shrug.

"Do you know her?" he then asks, his voice no longer suspicious, but in awe. "Personally, I mean?"

"Not really, no," I reply after a few seconds, making sure he doesn't notice I'm lying.

Although to say that I'm lying, is not entirely accurate. I knew Katniss Everdeen-Mellark; back she was my mother, not a fallen soldier with no control over herself as she is now. I don't really know her anymore.

"Oh, Mellark, I see you've met our guide," Mr. Treass' voice says from behind me and his hand lands on my shoulder. "Hello Tristan."

Tristan doesn't acknowledge my history teacher right away, no; he stares at me in slight disbelief for a fraction of a second that, to me, seemed like an eternity.

"Mr. Treass," he then replies, shaking the bald man's hand and pretending something didn't just click in his brain. "If you would, please, follow me."

.

.

.

"How was your trip?" I hear near me, but pay no attention. "Kaleb?"

"Huh?"

My dad is watching me with a small frown on his face. I swallow the mouthful of potatoes I had stuffed myself with a few seconds ago, before I reply.

"Alright," I say casually. "We went to The Nut&Nut."

I watch my dad nod slightly before he too, went back to his dinner. His blue eyes settle on the TV screen and he says nothing else after that. I mean to say something more, but I come up short. I let my gaze fall on the screen as well, but I don't know what we are watching.

Ever since I saw it, I can't help thinking about Katniss' bow back in District 2. I keep wondering why it has been kept there and not destroyed as my parents believe it is. If they military never intended to get rid of it, why is it at a museum, of all places? It's humming means it still works, so why isn't it storied away at an actual military base then?

Also, does Tristan know it works? Because the way he spoke about it, seems as if he believed that the bow's glory days are over.

As I keep chewing who knows what, I think about that kid and the fact that he didn't out me. Well, it's not like there was anyone around to whom he could tell about me. The only people at the museum apart from him and a couple of guards were my classmates, who are perfectly aware of my identity.

Still, the kid didn't act surprised or tried to get me to talk to him again. He didn't stalk me with questions about my parents like most people who don't know them do. I guess I'm grateful to the kid for that.

I try to finish my dinner without thinking about my day anymore and soon realize that my dad is no longer in the living room. He's in the kitchen, cleaning up. I drink what's left of juice in my glass and turn the TV off.

"Do you need any help?"

"No, it's alright, son," he replies as he takes my plate from my hands.

I stand there, not knowing what to say. My father and I have never had much in common. I shared more interests with Katniss than with him. It's Piper the one that knows how to talk to him. And she left after they got back from the nut-house. So it's just him and I.

I watch him for a minute or two and wonder if he had a rough day. I don't know how to read his body language; I don't know how to read him at all. Maybe I should ask about Katniss; if she's feeling any better, but I can't bring myself up to care.

"Citizens of Panem, I greet you," I suddenly hear from the living room.

I'm sure I turned the TV off.

I walk out, with my dad behind me and see the screen on. There's an old man, probably in his mid-forties, with silver blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He's wearing a military suit while he gives us a rather charming smile, as if he was a salesman charged with an offer you wouldn't want to reject.

"I am Commander Sundance, and from this night on, I will be your President," he says with a voice just as charming as his smile.

I walk slowly to the couch and sit, hypnotized by something I have never experienced before and notice my dad still standing far behind.

"Gee, that sounded slightly ridiculous. I must fire my speech assistant," the man says. "Allow me to elaborate, my fellow patriots."

I look back at my dad and see him pale, as if he has seen a ghost that arose from the dead and came back to haunt him as long as he remains alive. There's a mask of horror painting his face; horror I had only seen once, when he was much younger, during the last round of The Hunger Games that ever televised, in a recording I had been yelled at for watching.

"This is your current leader, President Paylor," the camera then turns to a woman with gray hair that sits on a red chair, before the man addresses just her. "How are you, darling?"

I see the Head of Panem give the man a cold, unwavering look and then notice what seem to be stitches holding her lips together. Then it all becomes clearer; I see her wrists tied to the chair, her hair ruffled and her clothes tainted with blood, and I refuse to wonder whose blood that is.

I have the feeling that won't matter for long.

"As I'm sure everybody knows, the woman I long ago knew as Commander Paylor, took the presidency of our country by a random act of improvisation when the leader back then, died in the hands of a rotten minded teenager," the man says and his salesman manner no longer seems charming, but like that of a psychopath. "I, President Coin's faithful follower, Eustace Leon Sundance, will be replacing Commander Paylor as the head of Panem…"

He holds his hand out and an invisible person places a gun in it.

"From this…" he loads the gun with one single bullet. "Moment…" he removes the safe. "On."

He shoots President Paylor at the last word and I feel a lump on my throat and a painful need to throw up as soon as her blood splatters all over. I close my eyes and try to tell myself this isn't happening.

Don't look at the blood. Don't look at the blood. Don't look at the blood. Don't-

"Embrace the New Regimen."