This is the last of my pre-prepared chapters. Prepare for slower updates from here on out, unfortunately.


Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games or anything associated with it. All rights to The Hunger Games and affiliated products belong to Susanne Collins, Lionsgate, and the other proper entities.

Summary: In a downtrodden world, children are sacrificed yearly to maintain the status quo. One year after her own Games, Katniss and her old mentor, Haymitch, are handed a tribute worth saving. Little do they know, he may be the one to tip the scales. Peeta.

Rating: T (For now)

Genre: Action/Drama/Romance

Pairing: Katniss/Peeta

Warnings: None.


Flares

Chapter Four

We rouse the tributes at seven in the morning, and make sure they eat a hearty breakfast. They're fairly quiet as they eat, but they're all alert as they stuff themselves. Haymitch and I exchange a glance. He's thinking of something. What is it?

"Katniss and I are going to sit down with you for half an hour each this morning to work out a preliminary strategy." He nods in my direction. "We'll come up with some strategies based on what you tell us. We'll start with Ryan, then we'll talk to Cole and then Peeta."

"Why can't you talk to us all at once?" Ryan asks haltingly.

I shrug. Haymitch explains. "Well, you'll each have your own strategies. You can't have anyone else knowing what your approach will be, or they may be able to turn it against you."

"Oh."

Haymitch and I finish eating and move into the Television room, Ryan trailing along behind us like a kicked puppy. I sit in an armchair as Haymitch stands the boy in the middle of the room and circles him. His face is grim as he prods the boy's non-existent muscles. Eventually, he motions for the boy to sit on the couch and takes the other armchair. I shift awkwardly.

"Can you use any weapons?" Haymitch asks abruptly.

"N-no."

"Well," Haymitch presses a button on the coffee table, and it opens up to reveal a bottle of liquor and orange juice. He pours himself a drink, and gets down to business, "you're going to have to spend some time learning how to use a knife in training." He shoots me a glance that I hope, with a sinking feeling, Ryan can't read. "Have you got any secret skills? Anything that might be useful in the arena?"

"N-no."

It goes on and on. Haymitch must ask the same questions ten times over before he's satisfied and moves on to the advice part of the session. I try to mask my face and not let my pity surface for him to see. Haymitch tells him to try to learn to use a knife in the training sessions, claps him on the back, and sends him back out to breakfast. Cole comes in behind him.

Unlike Ryan, Cole can use a knife. He's not had a lot of practice with it, but he knows how to handle one and could probably do some significant damage. Haymitch puts him through his paces, though, and still manages to pin him down against the chair. Haymitch wasn't even putting any effort into it, either. Cole has the spirit; but he lacks the strength to back it up. We suggest that he learns something about snares and weapons during training and send him out.

Haymitch runs a hand down his face when Peeta's entering the room. I feel almost sick, practically hearing his thoughts about the other two tributes—neither of them have much hope.

"Stand there." Haymitch points to the middle of the room, by the coffee table. Peeta obeys. Unlike the other two boys, Haymitch beckons me over and makes me circle Peeta with him. I don't touch him, but Haymitch takes the opportunity to examine every inch of the boy. I catch his mutterings and feel a little awkward; it's too much like eyeing up a piece of meat for the platter.

Finally, Haymitch tells Peeta he can sit. I practically jump into my chair as Haymitch drops into his own, and wait. It takes a moment for him to speak. "Okay, what can you do?"

"Do?" Peeta echoes. "You mean, in the Games? Nothing."

"Any skills?"

"None." He gives a sad sort of grin. "I have absolutely nothing that will help me in the Arena."

"That's not true." I hear myself say, to all of our surprise. "You're strong—you lift hundred pound bags of flour in the markets all the time when the shipments come in. I've seen you." I avoid Haymitch's eyes, knowing they're on me. "And you can wrestle."

"I'm not that good." He ducks his head.

"You came in second. After your brother." I remind him. "I remember the guy you took out in the semi finals two years ago—he beat my friend Gale. He would've had to have been almost one and a half times your size."

"Yeah, but how many times do you see people wrestle to the death?" He argues. "It's not like being able to use a weapon—not like you could, last year!"

Oh my God, it's like he's hell bent on selling himself short. "There's always hand-to-hand combat!" I finally snap. "All you have to do it come up with a knife, and you've got a chance. Half the tributes in the arena get jumped, and they're dead." That shuts him up. "Look, you can't go in doubting yourself. That's the quickest way to get killed."

"She's right." Haymitch finally speaks, and our attention snaps back to him. From the look on Peeta's face, he'd completely forgotten he was there. "Don't underestimate yourself. Very often physical strength can mean life or death for a tribute. Now, we need to talk training strategies."

We talk for another twenty minutes. I can already tell the difference between this session and the other two. Haymitch's face is much more intense as he stares the boy down, grilling him about every aspect of his life.

"I decorate the cakes back home." Peeta shrugs, a little pink in the face. "It's hardly the most useful skill, but it's one of the only things I'm really good at."

"That means you're an artist." Haymitch shrugs. "Artists are generally pretty good with camouflage. Spend an hour or two at that station down in the training centre until you're sure you can make a convincing disguise."

"Camouflage?" Peeta repeats in disbelief.

"Sometimes, to fight isn't smart." Haymitch shrugs, leaning back. "When you're cornered by three other tributes, the best thing to do is to hide and wait for them to pass."

"I spent half my Games in hiding." I point out.

"Alright, camouflage." Peeta agrees.

"I don't believe you when you say you can't use a knife." Haymitch tells him. "Stand up." Peeta obeys, and Haymitch copies him, handing him a comb that Effie left on the table last night. "Pretend that's a knife. Come at me."

"What?"

"Do it!"

It's more of a wrestling match than a knife fight. I see at least three opportunities for Peeta to 'kill' Haymitch, but he seems to be avoiding striking the fatal blow. Peeta eventually manages to wrestle Haymitch to the ground, but he doesn't reach for the comb he's tucked into his belt. I'm shaking my head as Haymitch throws him off with a grunt of effort, and gestures for him to move away.

"Sit down." He barks. "You," he snaps at me, "what are you shaking your head at?"

"Peeta had three chances to kill you and he didn't." I turn my eye to the boy seated on the couch, and I lean forward. "You can't afford to let opportunities get away from you in the arena, you know. If it comes down to hand to hand combat, the others aren't going to pull any punches. They will kill you. You have to be willing to do the same if you want to win."

"Maybe I don't want to." Peeta scowls. It's the first time I've seen his mood sour. "Maybe I don't have it in me."

"Yes you do." Haymitch waves away Peeta's negativity. "Listen, boy, until you're in there, fighting, you don't know what you're capable of. If you don't wanna win for yourself, then win for your family. Win for your friends. Hell, win for the District."

"I'm not a killer!"

"You'll have to be!" Haymitch glares at him.

"And what if I refuse?"

"Then you die." Haymitch has quite obviously had enough. He grumbles to himself as he throws the door open and stomps out of the room, and suddenly I'm terrified that he's decided not to help Peeta after all.

"Haymitch!" I try to call him back.

"I give up!" He waves me off. "He's all yours, sweetheart!" The door slams behind him.

I bury my face in my hands, leaning my elbows on my knees. Closing my eyes, I heave a sigh. Great. Just great. "Look, Peeta—"

"I'm sorry." Peeta's not looking at me when I look up. Instead, he's staring out the window, over the Capitol. "I just… it just feels too much like the end."

"You hate this, I know." I rise from my chair and sit next to him on the couch. I force my voice into the tone I use when trying to comfort Prim after a bad dream and make my expression sympathetic. "I hated it last year, too. But, listen," he turns to look at me, "you have a good chance. A better chance than most people from Twelve. You're strong. And you're smart. Not many people think about sponsors as early as the train."

"What difference does that make?" He asks.

"Smarts are an attractive trait for people to sponsor, and sponsors can mean everything." I spread my hands out in front of me, palms up. "Do you remember what happened to me last year, with the fire?"

He nods. "You burnt your hands trying to put out the fire on your pant leg."

"Right." I wiggle my fingers, catching his attention. He stares at my hands. "I burnt them pretty badly. And I made it worse by climbing the tree and cutting down the tracker jackers."

"I don't get it." He shakes his head. "What's this got to do with sponsors?"

"My first sponsor gift was burn medicine." I remind him. "It healed my hands in next to no time. Without that, I wouldn't have been able to use my bow. And that bow saved my life on more than one occasion. Those sponsors saved me." I pause. "And those days, in the rain? I couldn't get food while I was trapped in that cave. They sent me food so I wouldn't collapse from starvation. They sent me arrows when I ran out. You go into the arena with nothing, but if you can attract the right kind of sponsors, Haymitch and I can get you all kinds of things."

"You talk about it like it's easy." He shrugs. "Most of the sponsors flock to One and Two, remember?"

"Not always." I shake my head. "Statistically speaking, I had the most sponsors per tribute last year."

"That's you." He shakes his head now. "You have no idea… you don't know the affect you have on people." He picks at a ball of fuzz on his pant leg, not looking at me. "I'm nothing special. Forgettable."

"Were we at the same opening ceremony?" I choose to ignore his comment about me. I have no idea what to say to it. "They love you."

"They loved Cinna."

"He did a wonder, I'll admit." I concede. "But Cinna wasn't the one standing on the chariot. He wasn't smiling and waving at the crowd. That was you. They were calling out your name. It's not often that happens to a tribute."

"It happened for you."

"I got lucky." I admit. "But so did you. Cinna isn't just stuffing you in fancy clothes, you know. He's making you an image."

"What kind of image?"

I hesitate. "I guess…"

"You don't know, do you?" He nudges my knees with his. I shove him lightly in retaliation and he laughs.

"We'll have to wait and see what he has in store for your interview at the end of the week." I compromise, unwilling to admit that I'm clueless. "Until then, don't give up. I don't feel like going back to District Twelve and explaining why I couldn't bring you home to your family."

"What about the other two?" He asks. "I mean, if I'm the one to go home, you'll have to explain to their families, won't you?"

"Nah, I'll leave that to Haymitch." I stand. "Come on, you've been in here ten minutes too long." He stands and I pat his shoulder. "Just, do me a favour, and at least try, okay?"

He hesitates a moment. "Alright." A sigh. "So, camouflage?"

"Let me give you the same advice Haymitch gave me last year." I look him square in the eye to try to get across the seriousness of what I'm about to say. "Steer clear of what you're actually good at. Don't show the Tributes how much you can lift. Try and appear mediocre. That way no one will know how you got your training score at the end, after you perform for the Gamemakers. Effie says that a good score is like armour. It makes them wonder."

"Okay, steer clear of weightlifting and hand to hand. Spend some time at camouflage. Got it. Anything else?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You'll want to spend a good amount of time at the plants station." I finally say. "They'll teach you what plants are safe to eat, what ones you can use as medicine, and what ones are toxic so you know to look out for them. Plus, it might give you a clue as to what kind of plants will be in the arena. And I'd recommend the knot tying and fishing stations, at least to master a few skills. If nothing else, you have to be able to feed yourself."

"Right."

"And try to pick up a few weapon skills." I shrug. "You don't have to master any of them, but it's always good to know the basics of as many as possible. Learn to use a sword, swing a mace, throw a spear."

"Got it." Peeta nods. "Okay, I'd better get out there. The other two will start complaining of favouritism."

I shrug. They wouldn't be wrong, but I don't say that. "Go on, then. Don't want to be late. And pay attention to what the other tributes do, too. It might give you some idea as to their strengths." I slap him on the back as he passes me to head out to the dining room again. "Don't forget what I said!"


I'm going over a list of interview questions for the talk show I'll be appearing on tomorrow when Haymitch comes into the living area. "What did you say to that boy?" He asks. I'm surprised he's not drunk after the argument this morning. He used to drink after we clashed.

"Nothing much." I shrug.

Haymitch stands by the window, looking out over the Capitol. There's a drink in his hand—it probably wont be long before he needs to take a nap. "He came out of here this morning and apologised to me for being unreasonable."

"That was smart of him." I go back to my questions. What is the biggest change you've had to deal with since becoming a Victor? I can't answer 'my nightmares' for that. The Capitol wants a fairytale. "You're the experienced mentor, after all. He needs to stay on your good side."

"I want to know what you told him." He presses.

I sigh and lower the folder in my hands. "We talked a little about sponsors. Then I told him what stations to visit. That's it."

"What stations did you point him to?"

"Camouflage. Plants, knots, fishing." I shrug. "I told him to get the basics in some weapons, too. And don't worry, I told him to steer clear of his real strengths—just like you told me last year."

"Good." He pats my shoulder as he leaves the room. I go back to my folder.


Like I said in the opening ANs, this is the last of the chapters I have pre-written. I'm in the process of writing Chapter Five at the moment (It's about 2/3 done, I think), but it's going slowly because I'm busy preparing for the Arena.

-Ahem- You will either love or hate what I plan to do with the arena. It's going to be brutal, and I mean that in the very literal sense of the word. Currently, I'm working out how each Tribute dies, where they place in the rankings and who kills them, then I've got to do the chronology. I will say, though, that the Bloodbath might be a bit… surprising. ;) But still, there are at least two more chapters before Peeta, Cole and Ryan head into the Arena.

As to Peeta's attitude in this chapter, this is how I picture him acting if it hadn't been Katniss in the Arena with him. I mean, he was in love with her, so naturally he's going to try to save her. But if she's not going in there with him and he really has nothing to go home to? We all know he didn't want to turn into a monster, so I've just kind of interpreted that into this context. Also, I forced him and Katniss into OOCness a little, but these are stressful situations and Katniss is kind of desperate to save him, so she's treating him a little friendlier than she did in canon.

That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Reviews are love!

Thanks for reading,

Sparkly Faerie