AN: I don't own the Hunger Games. Hope those of you reading have enjoyed it so far.


Arc One: The Scholar.


Chapter One.

I have no idea why the 'therapy' never worked on me.

You see, all students of the School have to take these sessions, but really, for the 'schoolers' and the 'granted' they are just counselling sessions; career options, a listening ear, that sort of thing. The 'scholars' sessions are the different ones. They are the ones that are guaranteed to turn even those possessed of the strongest of wills into a 'Capitol-drone' – that's what my roommates and I used to call the 'scholars' returning home. Little did we know that only one of us would still be a 'connecter'. That's what that one over there coined all of us that arrived fresh off the train that September.


For the first time since I could ever remember, I was alone. Ever since that silver envelope containing a single tiny white rose arrived at the bakery doorstep, a sudden awareness would overtake me. I was never alone, but I never realised it till that day.

Even the beatings from mother stopped.

I guess she figured out that this would be worse than anything she could ever do to me.

So what happened?

I received an invitation to the Coriolanus Snow School for the Gifted and Talented.

That's what happened.

That brought me here, a pristinely white building with the name of the school stamped prominently on the front in garish silver lettering. There were a few others like me though. Seven of us.

Three girls.

Four boys – myself included.

The one nearest to me had bottle-top black rimmed glasses, black eyes and brown hair. He nudged me swiftly as the seven of us 'newbies' stared wide-eyed all around the compound which would be our new home for, for all we know – the next six to two years, depending on our age of entrance. When I turned to look at him he stuck out his hand for shaking.

"Uiop Nabriy. District Three. Seventeen. You?"

"Peeta Mellark. District Twelve. Fifteen, turned it this spring."

Another boy, this time with copperish skin and pastel baby green eyes cut into the introduction.

"Twelve? I didn't know there were still people over there that could put stuff together in spite of the ongoing famine throughout the ! Sorry, Wright Quays. District Four. Sixteen over here."

This drew the last boy in, something vague about it reminded me of Johanna Mason actually, the Victor of a previous Hunger Games. It was something about the eyes, even though he resembled someone famous – can't recall who straight off, more closely.

"I'm Derrick Mason. District Seven. I'm also fifteen, turned it last winter. My sister has no idea I'm alive."

"The Victor's your sister?"

A nod. The apparently tactless Uiop cut straight in.

"She looks nothing like you!"

"I used to."

The air around us four grew solem. The girls, I'd estimate around thirteen to fifteen year old, all of them, had banded together; much like us. Wright decided to cut straight to the point as we waited to be shuttled to our new quarters.

"Are you here for the same reason as me?"

"Why are you here?"

"I can see things, spot things. The inconsistencies in our histories, our constitution, the treaties. They completely disregard common sense! And I told people about it. Started a tiny circulation to expose the truth before they brought me here."

Uiop looked up at him.

"The first part sounds pretty much the same as me, only I had created a programme that would flash all the evidence at every terminal in the district every four hours for people to read. Mason?"

"They wanted to punish Johanna. So they killed my parents. Appeared to kill me, drugged me and gave me extensive intelligent reconstructive plastic surgery. It actually changes as I grow. I also connected things together. But I also refused just to go quietly to their Capitol orphanage, especially just to cater to the citizens who want a Finnick Odair of their own."

That's when the 'someone famous' hits me.

They turned him into Finnick Odair. A Finnick Odair with shadow black eyes, but the Victor from District Four nevertheless.

"Mellark?"

My response is almost automatic, brought on from the times I work the till and had to convince the Peacekeepers that 'yes that is the lowest price we can give you for those bread and are you sure you don't want to have a look at our lovely selection of cakes?'.

Start with a smile, be charming.

"Call me Peeta you lot, please. After all I guess we're all in the same boat now."

They all smile back at me.

"Sure, no problem."

"Peeta then."

"Easier than saying Mellark for sure."

I roll my eyes.

"I guess I connected the dots too, I think we all did, but I also openly questioned our government in class and manage to get most of my district to stop waiting around for money to buy the supplies and get them themselves through farming, gathering and etcetera, you know? I told them what went wrong and they knew what to do."

They blinked at me. I blinked at them. And Mason threw his head back in laughter. They must have done something to his vocal cords because he even sounds like Odair at that age.

"That's why you're here."

"Guess we're all connectors…"

Uiop said.

We froze. From that day one, we, and the girls were known as 'connectors'


I still haven't figured out why I'm here, other than that fact.

Derrick Mason was here because he wouldn't be a good little transfigured orphan.

Wright Quays and Uiop Nabriy were here because they spread the truth.

We all were here because we could connect the dots together. And now only one of the seven of us that arrived here can do that.

I don't call my roommates by name anymore. They aren't who they were when they first arrived. And after tonight I fear that neither will I.

Tomorrow is the day of my audience with President Coriolanus Snow.

And I fear for my life.


There's a certain protocol one must take before you meet the President.

In a way, it's eerily similar to the preparations you must take for the Games, of course, apparently I am the first 'Scholar' being granted an audience. So really, I wouldn't know anything about the standard procedure for a student of his school meeting him.

I remember the first thing that happened just before we were placed at the school, right when we arrived at the Capitol.


I think this is the trains they use for the Tributes.

It certainly looks like the District Twelve carriage anyway, the details from that pre-Hunger Games show, showcasing all the comforts the Tributes would experience that we watched in the twelve year old class, are all copied here.

It doubles the sense of anxiousness I have been experiencing from the invitation. The fact the same Escort they use, Effie Trinket, for the Games is escorting me to the Capitol does not help matters.

There's even the same feast laid out before me that often serves as the first of the Tributes last meals. I can't help but wonder what that would mean for me. I'm starved, I want to gobble everything in sight. I may have had a more steady means of food as the Baker's boy – but stale bread shared out between five is still hardly substantial. I am District Twelve after all.

I want to. But I don't.

It is Effie's eyes on me that make me go slower than I'd like to. She's Capitol-bred, through and through. Just looking at me and silently judging me. But I don't think she even realises that she's doing it.

It's been fifteen minutes.

I don't reach for food till three seconds after she does. Slow enough to be polite, fast enough to remove any thought of hesitation on my part. I don't eat till she starts to cut a piece of fruit. I match every move of hers for one of my own.

And now she's smiling as she places her cutlery down. It stretches her neon pink stained cheeks (which she oddly paired with white hair stained at the roots with the same colour) and somewhat transforms her made up face.

I haven't finished, but I know the beginnings of a woman starting to speak. I've had too much practice with my mother – trying to predict when she would be in one of her moods – to do otherwise. So I mimic what she's done, setting my own cutlery down neatly before meeting her eyes.

Her smile grows even wider.

"Such good manners you have."

"Thank you – Miss."

"And so polite too! Oh I wish the Tributes I escorted the past few years were like you. They didn't even use the cutlery."

One, most of your Tributes were from the Seam. Two, the people from the Seam are often more starved than us 'Townies'. Three, they wouldn't be concerned about manners when they get on this train. More about staying alive as long as they can! But be charming.

"Thank you so much Miss, everything is so nice."

"Oh! Only the best for the Tributes and the students of the School. But you are the first I've ever escorted for school and not for the Games. It is a very interesting change."

"I do hope so. I am going to the Capitol for an education, not as one with the honour of representing my District in the Games."

I don't believe anything I've just said, but I can tell it was the right thing to say to her. Her eyes practically glow with approval. Maybe if I can get her on my side, I'll be able to survive the 'school' better than the last one.

His name was Throthon Farren. My dad can remember the person he was before he went off to the Capitol. Bright, charming – at this point he'd always get a slightly wary and worried look in his eye before he'd look straight at me and say

"Actually, he was a little like you."

I've seen Throthon Farren around our District. He's nothing like me. He's completely crushed. Completely Capitol compliant, I bet if he could volunteer for the Games when he returned, he would have to ensure the 'glory of the Capitol'. But he didn't. Like Victors, the 'Scholars' are exempted from the Games, it's practically an unspoken rule that if you've been to the Capitol once, you don't go back as a Tribute again.

You go back as a Mentor, or not at all.

Effie coos at me and I laugh nervously.

"I have no clue what's going to happen later. I'm sure I should but I don't…"

"Don't worry. Our first stop is the Remake centre…"

Interrupt her, make sure you seem eager and curious. Not like you're fishing for potentially life-saving information.

"Remake centre? The same one as the one the Tributes go to?"

"Yes. Now I'm going to give you the same advice that Haymitch Abernathy gives every Tribute as they go into the centre… if he's sober enough to remember to give advice."

We share a chuckle at the only living Victor from Twelve's expense. Abernathy's alcoholism is famous throughout the District. He's even used as an example of what alcohol can do if not taken in moderation in PSHE classes.

"Don't complain, the prep team handling you know what they're doing. Don't fight them and the preparations will be over that much sooner.

Barely twelve hours later I'm lying on a cold metal table, plucked like a wild turkey that my dad sometimes buys from her alongside the squirrels. I don't have any hair anywhere other than my crotch, eye brows and lashes and of course the top of my head. I can't remember my jaw feeling this smooth since before puberty. They told me that this would last for another year to year and a half.

They removed the burn marks on my hands and the crust of flour that has been impossible to get rid off has been removed. I'm tanner than before but they've left my calluses. Apparently the rugged feel for men's hands is 'in' this month. I barely recognise the person staring back at me from the mirrored ceiling.

The door to my remake chamber – I can't help but wonder if other District Twelve Tributes have lain here, counting their last hours under their breath – opens and a surprisingly normal for a Capitol man coffee coloured, gold eyeliner-ed guy comes in. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the table, running a hand through my now short and gelled into spikes hair as I do so.

He looks me over and nods his head before extending his hand.

"Hello, my name's Cinna. I'll be taking over the Stylist's team during the 74th Hunger Games…"

"The ones next year?"

"Yup those ones. I've put in a request for District Twelve. So I guess you'll be practice."

"I don't mind."

"So, what can you tell me about District Twelve."

My father calls it a gift, I'm not so sure about it though. Whenever I've worked the till for our bakery for the Peacekeepers and fellow Townies, I've always could be counted on to get the best price for us. I've always been able to read people well. It's how I've convinced the people most open to change in our district to do so. This man seems sincere.

So I tell him everything. About my district, and myself – even the events that lead up to my invitation to the school. He listens and absorbs everything – including my love for a certain silver-eyed girl, even if I don't mention Katniss' name to him. All the while, he does this, he sketches something as I speak. When I finish he makes a few more notes and sends whatever he did to an Avox (Effie told me about them on the train) to take away to do something.

That's when I realise that I have a friend in the Capitol. I don't know when it clicked but somehow, I knew it.

Cinna was the one that dressed me in the School's boy uniform. It's pretty simple actually: a white blazer with the school's emblem inscribed on the front pocket on top of white slacks. The shirt we wear underneath the blazer is entirely up to us, but Cinna hands me a simple coal-black dress shirt. He tells me it's his own design. I can't see his embellishments to the shirt until I get a good look at the gold buttons.

Every single one of them is a miniature crest of sorts.

There's a sword crossing a pen on diagonals. A loaf of bread crosses the horizontal. The vertical is taken up by a shorter sword-like blade. Not quite a knife but something different. There in the centre is a silver dandelion flower, its gold stem winds out underneath the other things on the button encircling them. From further off, if you aren't looking very closely and standing very near, you would only see a silver star-like object encased in a gold circle.

I look up at Cinna.

"What's this."

"Something I made from your memories of your home. To remind you of it."

"Huh?"

"The Pen, Bread and that Dagger and Dandelion in the centre all represent aspects of you. The dandelion is silver – for the girl's eyes and you did tell me she looked at you then stared at the dandelion before looking straight at you again with some sort of realisation dawning. The sword is her again, she sounds like a fighter."

"Why a Dagger?"

"I think you'll find out."


I've worn his shirt designs for my uniform shirt ever since. My casual clothing is school-issued, a white T-shirt on top of white sweatpants or jeans.

I'm back in the Remake centre. It is the day before the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games and the place is bustling. I'm here for another full body buff and a re-styling before I head to the President's home to dine and watch the Reaping.

This feels eerily familiar.

Cinna walks in again. He's worried, but he also looks confident.

"Hi again Peeta."

"Hi Cinna."

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous, anxious – every single adjective you can think of for a bad squeamish feeling."

"You're going to meet the President. I think that's to be expected."

"Yeah…"

"You might be on camera soon, I'm here to provide you an image."

"Again?"

"Apart from the Victor and the Tributes, you're the only other representative of Twelve they are going to see. You know very well what most of the Capitol thinks. I'm here to help you show them that your home is more than what they expect. Add to that that you're the first Scholar to join Snow's council…"

"I don't want to."

"I know."

"It doesn't change the fact you are. Another 'Schooler' joining is not a big deal, you doing so is."

"Why?"

"You don't know do you? What you can be?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

I got nothing out of that conversation. Cinna seems to be another one who's a lot like me.

"What should I do?"

"Well, you will probably be in a position to influence people, most probably your peers. From what you've told me of the regime you go through, he's trying another angle to bring you under. You are guarded against a 'frontal assault', so I think he's going to try and appeal any sense of greed you may have. Or need for control."

"I'm not safe aren't I?"

"In a way, I suppose it'll be worse for you than the Tributes. You'll be heading into a different arena. Possibly a more dangerous one."

I grimace and Cinna pats my shoulder comfortingly.

"I have something for you."

I look up as he pulls something out the garment bag. It's truly a Cinna original. The suit is coal-black and it's paired with a flame red-orange with thin gold stripes dress shirt. The buttons are the customary ones that he designed for my use. The thing that really surprises me is that where the school crest would have been on my uniform is that design again in gold and silver. And when I put it on and turn around, it's emblazoned on my back like I'm carrying a shield.

"It's perfect, but it seems a little blatant."

"Just reminding him who he's dealing with. The Boy Who Won't Break."

"I hope I don't have to wear this for lunch tomorrow, it's too good for the President."

"I agree. You tell me when you want to put that on and I will give it back to you. This is for tomorrow."

He pulls out a replica of the uniform I wore my first day. Down to the emblem on the buttons of the black shirt. But he's done it again. Where the school crest should be is my own, except with the colours inverted, the dandelion gold and starkly visible against the silver.

"You're still Peeta Mellark, the Baker's son. They may bring you here and try to change you but you haven't. This is just a bit subtler than the other one."

"Thank you, this is perfect for tomorrow."


The President's home is an exercise in icy extravagance. All I can tell is that he is obsessed with his name.

And he gives me the creeps. When I first stand to greet him, his eyes rest for a full five seconds on my crest. I'm sure he knows something I don't – that maybe my personal emblem is

The Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games is in an hour, along with our lunch. While we wait, he's taking me on a tour of his mansion.

I would rather be anywhere but here. The President is constantly scrutinising me. I'd rather be back at home, icing the cakes – I'd even prefer to be in my room in the school, with the shells of my roommates, sketching or painting.

Apparently my acting is just that good. He doesn't seem to think anything is wrong with me – with my beliefs that are aligned against him.

We sit in a rose garden, opposite each other. I can't tell if the sickly smell is from them or him. Or if the cutlery is platinum or silver. The holo-TV is placed in front of us.

We sit. We eat. I try to hide my true beliefs all the while I chat 'pleasantly' with him. I watch with growing grief in my heart as children are Reaped or if they volunteer while my dining partner give commentary on what he believes the odds are for each of them. I watch in horror when Primrose Everdeen is Reaped. My hearts stops when Katniss volunteers.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I am a Scholar. I haven't seen my district in over a year. According to Cinna, I've stepped into a dangerous arena – I would agree, Snow's a player here. The girl I've been in love with since I was five – my unfulfilled Mockingjay wish – has just been Reaped.

And under the gaze of Snow, I retain a mask of objective pity when inside, all I want to do is scream.