Chapter 1: Uneven Odds

The scent of blood is nearly overwhelming; so strong that I can practically feel the metallic tang fill my mouth. The smell is inescapable in the sweltering heat and despite my years of working here, the stench of blood still bothers me. I scrunch up my nose, scowling in disgust at the piece of veal in front of me, willing it to cut itself up and save me from the task. After a few minutes of staring, I groan in defeat and grab the butcher's knife from the table in front of me to begin stripping the meat. Maybe if I stab it hard enough the scent will disappear.

I've been working since early this morning. It's a busy day: everyone trying to get in as much business as they can before District Twelve is crawling with Peacekeepers and the whole place shuts down tomorrow. I hack forcefully at the piece in front of me, trying to block out all thoughts of what will happen.

"Now come on, Briar. What did that poor piece of meat ever do to you?"

I look up and see Mr. Fairbain staring at me. His stare is serious, or at least it tries to be. I can see a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

"It decided to have a poor reaction to the heat and now it's trying to suffocate me," I reply, jamming the knife between the meat and the bone and cutting it away. Mr. Fairbain shakes his head, the smile finally making its way onto his face. I glance up as he turns and opens a drawer, pulling out a meat tenderizer.

"You'd think you would've adjusted after what? 5 years?"

I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. "You'd think so, but I swear, the smell just gets worse and worse every day. I don't know how anyone can stand it. And they don't even work with the stuff."

Veal is rare in District Twelve because nobody kills livestock that early if they can avoid it. Not when it can be profitable later. Still, its rareness means it brings in more money than other meats, especially from those in the Merchant Village. The years of working with Mr. Fairbain makes stripping and cutting the meat almost second nature, but I work slowly now: I don't want to risk messing it up and causing the price to drop. I hand the meat over to Mr. Fairbain when I finish.

I stand back and wipe my hands on the apron I'm wearing, watching Mr. Fairbain work. He's not much older than my father, but he moves with a gracefulness I wouldn't expect if I didn't know him myself. I can't help but admire how simple it is for him, despite years of watching him do this very task. One look at the meat and his weathered hands are moving effortlessly, finding the perfect spot to cut—slicing through the meat as if it were as soft as butter. He's been working as the town butcher for as long as I can remember, though I didn't have the chance to meet him until a few years ago. He took me under his wing when I was eleven, when it was clear tesserae and the makeshift jobs I worked in the Hob wouldn't be enough to support me—I still don't really understand why he did it. But while my years of work here have made the task easy for me, it's nothing compared to the absolute grace Mr. Fairbain exhibits when wielding a butcher's knife.

I glance out the window of the shop, surveying the people as they rush around town, working at their own trades. My eyes move to the right and my gaze lands on Katniss Everdeen, who is walking with her sister, Primrose. They seem lost in their own world, a shadow of a smile on their faces as they chat about one thing or another.

I've known Katniss for years as a result of us both being from the Seam, though we've never been anything more than acquaintances. We had both been fixtures in the Hob, her supplying meat and various plants for trade, and I helping to prepare and deliver them. She always brings the best game too, or at least she used to. I rarely see her anymore, not since the destruction of the Hob. Not since Gale was whipped, the Peacekeepers arrived in droves, and she became somewhat of a pariah to those in Twelve. She comes around to Mr. Fairbain's store every once in a while to get meat, but aside from that, we never cross paths.

Still, even though I don't know Katniss well, I can't help but admire her. Not only for what she did for her sister or for surviving the Games, but for the fact that when she returned, she still did the same things she did before going in; she hasn't let becoming a victor completely change her. I guess having someone else come out of the arena with her has helped with that. Gives her somebody who understands, because I doubt anyone who has never been in the Games can even begin to comprehend it. My chest tightens painfully. I don't even try. No matter how close I've been to the Games, I know I can't.

My mind wanders to her fellow victor, Peeta Mellark. We were friendly enough before his Games due to my work in the Merchant Village and his warm nature, but like with Katniss, we've never been close. Aside from when I was in the shop, I never spent much time in town, and he never spent any in the Seam. But even though we don't know each other well, I find that I like him. He has a charm that's hard to ignore. I haven't seen much of him since he won. I frown slightly at the thought.

He moved to the Victor's Village, but his family chose to remain in their house above the bakery. The Mellark's still place some orders with us, though far less frequently than they used to. I don't see why they do at all, it's not like they need it. They have more than enough money since Peeta won the Games. But whatever their reasons, I'm glad to still have their business. Any money I can make saves me from taking out more tesserae. I let out a sharp laugh. With the amount I already have, it's not like one less slip with my name will make a difference tomorrow.

"Something funny, Briar?" I snap my head back to face Mr. Fairbain, who's still tenderizing the meat.

"What? No, why?"

"You were laughing." Oh. I must look like I'm losing it, standing here, doing nothing and laughing at nothing. I shake my head

"I was just thinking about the Reaping tomorrow."

He stops what he's doing and looks at me sharply. Mr. Fairbain knows my situation, and that there is absolutely nothing funny about it. I really shouldn't be laughing.

"Don't look at me like that," I say with a sigh. "We both know that the chances of me getting reaped are high. My name's in the bowl fifteen times, and there are twice the number of tributes." I shrug my shoulders even though the thought makes my stomach feel like its twisting into knots. "Even if I don't get reaped tomorrow, I still have two more years. Who knows what will happen."

He can't deny the truth of my statement.

"Getting reaped isn't really an option though. I mean, what would you even do without me?" I say with a small smirk. "You'd have to train a new apprentice and everything."

He laughs at that, and I feel a little better. "Maybe the next one would be able to handle the smell of blood a little better, huh? It's a useful skill when working with game. Or so I hear," he says with a teasing glint in his eye. "Although, it'd be hard to replace that sharp mind. I wouldn't be able to keep track of anything without you."

I smile again but don't respond. My mind is still focused on the Reaping tomorrow. Mr. Fairbain seems to notice too because he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a comforting smile.

"Try not to worry too much about it, kid."

I bite my lip and nod as I finish packing the meat in front of me. "I should probably get going. The last thing I need is Mrs. Mellark coming after me because I was late with her order," I say removing my apron and placing it on the counter.

He gives me another kind smile. "Be careful out there." He's talking about the Peacekeepers, but I know he's not really worried about me getting into trouble. He says it more out of habit than anything.

I grab my bag off the back of a chair and pack the meat away before making my way out of the decaying building, heading down the street towards the Mellark's bakery.

A look at the sun tells me it's about four o'clock. Children are walking around town, taking advantage of the day and having a good time. Well, as good of a time as you can have in Peacekeeper covered District Twelve.

"Two's batch is sure to be good this year," I hear a Peacekeeper say. "It's a guaranteed win."

I roll my eyes as I walk past the pair of them, their white suits gleaming in the summer sun. Figures they have nothing else to talk about. They're either completely oblivious or just completely immune to the fear that's covering every inch of District Twelve. My guess is the latter.

The walk to the bakery is a short one. The smell of fresh bread fills my nostrils and I breathe in deeply. I can't remember the last time I had fresh bread. I take another deep breath. I figure this is as close to it as I'm going to get anytime soon. I snicker as I try to picture what would happen if I asked Mrs. Mellark for a piece of bread. I probably wouldn't make it to the Reaping tomorrow. Maybe asking wouldn't be such a bad idea after all; I win either way.

I walk around back and knock on the door. I can hear the sound of people running around, followed by a loud crash. Mrs. Mellark's sharp voice rings out and suddenly the door is yanked open, revealing a very flustered boy: Callen Mellark. He's blond just like his two brothers, but he's smaller than Peeta, despite being a year older. He stands there staring at me as I look at him and then over his shoulder to find the source of the noise. He coughs lightly to get my attention, and I snap my head back to him. I smile in apology.

"Here's your mother's order," I say hastily, pulling out the meat from my bag and handing it to him.

He nods in thanks and hands me the money. "Before you go, my father was wondering if you'd be willing to drop something off at Peeta's for him. He would go himself, but we're pretty busy preparing for all the incoming Peacekeepers tomorrow."

"Sure, I'm heading that way anyway." It's not the truth, but it saves me from going back to a house with nothing but my father and my thoughts of tomorrow.

"Great. Just wait here a minute."

He's gone and back in seconds. I take the bag from him and he gives me another quick thanks before moving to close the door. I don't know why I do it, but suddenly my hand is reaching out, preventing him from shutting the door. I stand there floundering for a minute as he stares at me expectantly. His gaze is steady, but not wholly unkind as I search for what I want to say.

"I just, uh, wanted to wish you luck… with the Reaping tomorrow," I add the last part quickly, noting the confusion coloring his face. I see understanding fill his eyes and he gives me a small nod.

"You too. Tell Peeta I say hello."

I tell him I will as he closes the door.

Why did I say that? Why did I wish him luck?

Callen and I aren't friends. I can't even say that I particularly like him, and I don't think he's really fond of me either. While Peeta has been always come off warm and pleasant, Callen has always seemed… well, the opposite.

So why did I say it? I know it won't make a difference.

Probably because it's his last Reaping.

I can't help but feel a little jealous as I think about it. His name can't be in the bowl more than a handful of times, and after this year he's done with it. I kick a stone on the path in front of me. Still though, I can't help but hope it works out for him, even if I don't like him much. His family has been through enough. They don't need to sacrifice another son to the Capitol.

I let out a long sigh at my train of thought, unwittingly drawing the attention of a Peacekeeper standing on the side of the road. He stares at me with hard, suspicious eyes as I walk past. He doesn't approach me, though; so I keep my head down to avoid any confrontation.

I come to the entrance of the Victors' Village and take a quick look around. I've only been here once before, when I dropped off some medicine for Mrs. Everdeen, but it was during a particularly harsh winter day, and I was eager to get home. I laugh a little at the reverse of the situation; now it's my desire to avoid going home that has brought me here.

The houses here are nice, far nicer and much bigger than anything I've ever seen in Twelve. I cast a glance at the house to my left, noting the small garden in front. I immediately recognize it as the Everdeen's house. The garden makes it look a lot homier than the others. But it doesn't take much to make a house look outstanding in Twelve, since no one bothers to make their hovels look presentable. What's the point? There's no one to impress.

Peeta's house is directly across from Katniss', something I learned from another required viewing of the Capitol, so I make my way up the front steps and knock.

I stand there for a few minutes, but no one comes to the door. I can't hear anything inside, but I decide to knock again, just in case. I wait again, but nothing. Of course he's not home. I turn to leave, but stop when I suddenly hear a voice call from within.

"Come in! I'll be there in just a second!"

It's a little muffled by the door, but I can tell it's Peeta. I raise my eyebrows even though I know he can't see me. He doesn't even know who's at his door and he's telling me to come in. I shrug and go in anyway. His security, or lack thereof, is not my problem.

I close the door behind me and take in the house. It's plain, similar to the Everdeen's in layout and décor. I'm not really surprised. Peeta never struck me as a flashy guy. I guess even people from the town don't know how to deal with wealth. I can't really imagine spending it on anything other than food.

Peeta steps out from what I assume is the living room only a few moments later, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Briar, what are you doing here?" He looks a little confused, but smiles as he asks the question.

I smile back before replying, "Your dad asked me to drop something off to you. Hold on, it's in my bag.

I reach and pull the baker's bag from within, extending it to Peeta. He hesitates, and it's just then that I notice he has little smudges of color on his face and clothes, and his hands are covered in the stuff.

"Would you mind putting it on the coffee table for me? I'm sort of a mess."

I walk into the living room and my eyes are immediately drawn to what I assume is the painting he's currently working on. It's beautiful. It's a painting of a lush forest during night. There's a fire in the left-hand corner, a little girl warming her hands over it. I squint slightly as I scan over the painting. There's something gleaming from between the trees. A knife, I realize. It hits me suddenly what this is. It's a painting of the Games. His Games, specifically. I remember it from last year. The little girl too tired and too cold to think properly: to be smart enough not to light a fire in the middle of the night. It cost her her life.

I swallow and tear my gaze away, looking over the rest of the room. There are paintings everywhere. Some of the Games, some of District Twelve, and some of Katniss: every one just as beautiful as the last. Even the ones of the Games, I note—in their own gruesome sort of way.

"Did you do all of these?" I ask as I place the bag on the table in front of me. He nods.

"They're incredible, Peeta," I say as I scan over them once more. "I always thought that the Victor talent thing was more for show than anything, but you're really good."

He smiles slightly and mumbles a thank you. I think he feels uncomfortable, because he quickly changes the subject.

"Sorry you had to come all the way down here," he says with a shake of his head. "I don't know why my dad insists on sending me bread now. It's not like I'll be around to eat it with the Games coming up."

There it is again: the Games. Never too far from conversation. Not that I'm surprised. It's a hard thing to keep from your mind. I imagine it's even harder for someone like Peeta. Judging by the paintings, I'd bet they're on his mind all the time.

My silence seems to make him think he's said something wrong, because he looks ready to apologize, but I beat him to it.

"Oh right, you're a mentor now," I say. "Are you looking forward to it?"

It's probably a stupid question, because I don't know how anyone could be excited about that. Well, unless you're a Career, I guess. But Peeta's no Career.

"It'll certainly be a new experience, that's for sure. Haymitch will be coming with us to show us the ropes though." His words don't answer my question, but his face betrays how he really feels. He's not looking forward to it at all. I almost don't envy his situation.

Almost.

"At least you're out of the Reaping though," I say. "Maybe you can even stop Haymitch from falling off stage this year," I add as an afterthought.

He chuckles, and says, "Yeah, last year was… Let's just hope he's a little more sober this year."

He stops talking and a thoughtful expression covers his face. I can tell he's debating whether or not he should say what's on his mind. His curiosity wins out.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" he asks, but all I hear are the underlying questions, the ones that everyone wants to ask, but hardly ever do. How scared are you? How many times is your name in the bowl? What will you do if you get reaped?

It's an impossible thing to answer, so I don't bother trying. I shrug. "I guess I'm as ready as I can be," I say, pursing my lips and hoping that it helps cover up the fear I feel on the inside. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see if the odds are in my favor." I say the last part in the ridiculous Capitol accent, earning a small smile from Peeta.

We continue talking for a while after that, but neither of us bring up the rule changes of the Quell, or how it hurts my chances of not getting reaped, or how during his first year of mentoring he'll have to watch four tributes die—three, if he's lucky. Instead we talk about mindless things, but the conversation turns stilted, both of our minds on tomorrow's Reaping. There isn't much left to say, neither of us know much about the other, so I decide it's time to head home. Peeta thanks me again for bringing the bread and bids me goodbye at the door.

It's beginning to get dark now, but the stifling heat from earlier remains. It makes me feel disgusting, and I pick up my pace. I slow after a while though—once I realize that getting home won't make much of a difference. It's not like I have air-conditioning. Or twenty-four hour electricity, for that matter.

I'm left mostly to my own thoughts on my walk to the Seam, the streets having been long deserted by anyone with a home to get back to. Even most of the Peacekeepers have gone elsewhere. Likely to shine their suits and clean their weapons for tomorrow.

Got to look great for the Capitol, I think with a roll of my eyes.

I make it home a few minutes later, the walk being entirely uneventful, for which I'm thankful. I scurry up the front steps and walk inside, locking the door behind me. I'm relieved to find that my father hasn't returned from the mines yet. I really don't have the energy to deal with him.

The main room is hot—almost hotter than outside—so I open the windows and go to change into something cooler. I wash the filth from my skin over a tub in the corner of the room before I pull out a t-shirt and a pair of pants from the lone dresser and put them on. I have to resist the urge to just collapse onto my bed and sleep through tomorrow.

Instead, I shuffle my feet towards the kitchen to make dinner. I scan through my shelves as if I actually have choices. Facing the inevitable, I pull out a small pot and fill it with water, placing it on the stove to heat up. I add some leftover squirrel from yesterday, as well as a few vegetables that I bought from town this morning.

It's a different variation of the same meal: watery soup with whatever meat or vegetables I can scrounge up that day. The monotony of Twelve perfectly presented in food form. The water in the pot and the gas on the stove are only possible now due to the purchase of tesserae, and not for the first time, I wonder if it was worth it. The rational part of me knows I would have never survived this long without it, but with tomorrow's Reaping looming over everything, I can't help but regret the decision.

I wonder if this is how she felt before her Reaping; the feeling of the floor dropping out from under her, the pit of dread burrowing itself into her chest, the sinking feeling of inevitability. I don't remember ever seeing her scared, but I've never been as scared as I am now either. Maybe she was just really good at hiding it.

My thoughts are cut short when I hear the sound of sizzling. I look down at the pot and rush to pull it off the makeshift stove as the water boils over the side. I let out a hiss as the scalding metal burns my hand. I groan lightly as I look my hand over. The line is red and thick across my palm, the blister already rising on the surface. I know I should treat it. Instead, I squeeze my hand into a fist until the pain radiates down my arm. Then I squeeze tighter.