Hey guys! It's Friday and I'm feeling pretty good, so I decided to just go ahead and post this chapter a few days early. All of you have been so kind to me in your reviews that I just want to keep giving back to you. I'll be starting on chapter 10 tonight, and I've never been this far ahead, so this is very good!

Anyways, if the reviews reach 150 or more before next Friday, I'll post the next chapter. It doesn't matter to me; I'm leaving the choice up to all of you (:

Thank you so much for all your support! I hope you enjoy chapter 7!

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Seven: Peeta

The moment the doors to the train open the cameras descend on us like a pack of vicious wild dogs and I have a mild panic attack, reaching for Katniss who is at my side. I have seen wild dogs before, but I've been able to kill them on the spot with my arrow; this is much different and I try to compose my face so that I don't give away my horror.

They are all talking at once as they converge, and Peacekeepers have to literally shove citizens and cameras out of their way to even get the six of us out of the train. It's slow going. By the time all of us are out, the crowd has engulfed us and we are pushing forward at a painstaking pace. My feet itch to pound against this pavement and my hand wants to drag Katniss along so that we can run out of the Capitol and disappear into the Wilds.

I can't help it. Every face I see in the throng, I can't help but think they are going to want to watch me die. And as much as I want to, I can't hate them for several reasons that still aren't clear to me.

Katniss is directly behind me, Haymitch in front. Effie brings up the rear behind Cyress and Vesna and it seems like she's the only one even remotely responding to the shouts being thrown our way.

"Yes! We're all very excited to be here!" "They are rather handsome, aren't they!" "Yes, District Twelve, I swear it!"

I think that if Effie and Vesna had met under different circumstances they'd have been the best of friends.

It seems to take over an hour to simply walk the block from the train station to the Training Center and my mind is kept carefully blank the entire time as I watch my feet. One step in front of the other. Right, left. Right, left. Why is the sidewalk full of glitter? No, can't think about it. Right, left. Right, left.

Before too much longer, we are in an elevator heading up to the Remake Center. I can tell that Katniss is nervous because she keeps moving around on her toes, her eyes shifting through the great glass box we are in as it shoots skyward.

Vesna presses against my shoulder and makes a face. "I'm afraid of heights," she says as she reaches to grip my limp hand. I don't believe her for a minute, but I don't want to hurt her feelings.

Katniss glares at Vesna. "You didn't seem to mind them so much when we took our field trips into the mines," she says with a bite to her voice.

Vesna shrugs. "I forgot."

I look at Katniss and smile at her. Vesna may be holding my hand, but the girl glaring at me right now holds my heart. She doesn't know it yet, but she will. Very soon, if I can help it.

"Shut up and stop whining," Haymitch gripes. He's noticeably grumpier without the aid of alcohol but at least he's coherent. My life depends on him and I wasn't going to let him keep drinking himself into oblivion when I need him. Truth is, earlier on the train, the vile way he kept tossing back drinks reminded me achingly of the Witch.

I couldn't stand it, sitting next to him while he drank. He smelled ripe like he hadn't washed in days, and his eyes had been glassy. I guessed he probably had quite the tolerance after so many years, which probably made getting drunk harder, but at nine in the morning with a bottle, I realized he was going to try.

Images of the Witch flashed before my eyes and the anger couldn't be controlled. That woman has scarred me for life, has made it a nightmare to live day to day, and I shouldn't have to put up with that same routine from my district mentor. Before I knew it, I was throwing the flask out of his hand and he was slapping me across the back of the face.

I know he doesn't like me, but he's not drinking anymore, so I take that as a good sign.

The doors of the elevator open when the lift comes to a stop. Vesna tries to tighten her hand around mine but I let it slip, shrugging at the girl when she looks over her shoulder. I don't hate her like Katniss seems to, but I've never liked her either. Especially after all the hateful things I've heard her say. She looks and acts brainless, but I feel like sometimes there's a lot more going on in that head of hers than Katniss gives her credit for.

Effie ushers the rest of the crew off the elevator with a chirp, announcing that we are in the Remake Center. Haymitch nods at us as the doors close and he's lifted up, continuing on to our District 12 suite. She smiles at us and asks for Cyress and me to take a seat on the couch against the wall, and then places her hands on Vesna and Katniss' shoulders.

"I'll take the ladies to their station and then we'll see you later for the opening ceremony!" Effie exclaims. She spins the girls around and there is no time for so much as a goodbye before Katniss is out of my sight, a scowl on her face. She has to deal with both Vesna and Effie, while I'm left only with a constantly angry looking man. He's got his arms crossed severely over his chest and is glaring at the ceiling.

He's been like this since I saw him on the train yesterday, and suddenly I can't really take it anymore. "What's your problem?" I ask, trying to be light in my delivery. I've seen his anger; I don't want to have a broken bone before the Games even start.

Cyress looks at me sharply and frowns deeper. "Excuse me?"

Anxiety presses on my chest because I never, ever wanted Katniss to be in the Capitol, and it's worse that I can't see her, but I have to ignore it because Cyress is looking offended and that's not a good sign. "Your sister is about to be entered into a death game," I say, "and all you can do is gripe at your own situation." I don't add that it disgusts me because that surely won't coax a smile out of him at all.

He leans toward me slightly, keeping his voice down. "You don't get it, do you? Vesna wants to be here."

I find this very hard to believe. "But she was crying so much yesterday."

He shakes his head at me. "She looks stupid. Believe me, I've lived with her for sixteen years. But she's always wanted to be a part of the Hunger Games. Growing up, she always looks forward to watching them. It's suicide to me, but I'm her brother, and when she begged me to come with, I couldn't say no."

My chest tightens even more because Katniss may or may not be alone with this girl right now. Crying. Smiling vacantly. I don't know what to make of all the physical contact she's tried to make with me. Don't even want to think about it. "So that's her strategy, then."

Cyress laughs, but it's not a pleasant sound. "Look, man, I've never not liked you, so if you plan to beat my sister out of victory then you'd better watch your back around her."

I'd be wary of this advice if I didn't find it so strange that he is trying to warn me of Vesna. Does that mean he doesn't care if she comes back to 12 alive? Everything he's said to her, that I can remember, has always been caring enough, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there is much more going on with Vesna and her brother than just an insipid smile and an arm about the back. I play with the idea that he's just trying put me on my guard so that I overestimate her, but that doesn't make sense to me either.

All of this hurts my head, and it's too much since I'm already worrying about Katniss. Allowing the Capitol to know how much I care for her is a big mistake, I feel it already. She stubbornly got on the train yesterday without my knowledge, but if I could have prevented it, I would have. Despite all the comfort and relief she brings to me, I hate that the Capitol has her in its greedy hands. That I could lose her if I make the wrong move.

Katniss sees me as nothing more than a friend as far as I've been able to tell. This is good news, even though I'm more than desperate to earn her love. I know it's a long shot, but I'm willing to go the distance if that's what I have to do because it'll be worth it. She's worth it.

Of course, I'd rather go through a thousand Hunger Games than watch her be hurt by the Capitol. I'd rather die a million times than see her suffer at their hands. If bad things happen to her while she's here, it won't matter that she was the one to jump on the train; it'll have been my fault. I walked her to the mayor's house. I picked her for my gym partner. I started the conversation. I made the first move. If she's hurt, it will be because of me, and that's the worst thing I can imagine. She's the most important thing to me now. The most important thing to me ever.

I'm lost in thought, troubling over Katniss involvement in my life when a Peacekeeper approaches me and Cyress and we stand.

"District Twelve?" he says.

"That's us," I tell him, still shaking off my thoughts. I want to ask about Katniss, but it's almost certain he doesn't know.

"This way."

Cyress and I are led past several rooms until we are introduced to one that is split in half, one side for each of us, a curtain separating down the middle. The Peacekeeper is leaving as three, very colorful, very enthusiastic Capitol people burst past him. I swallow my grimace at their grotesque faces and instead smile.

The calmest looking one steps forward and shakes my hand earnestly. "You must be Peeta Mellark. I'm Lativa and this is Markle and Genie. We're going to make you look pretty."

Harmless. I have to remember that she is harmless. "Great. Looking forward to it."

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Cyress is absolutely ridiculous. Lativa and Markle are working on "bronzing" my skin, my chest burning because I've just had all the hair removed from there. It's Cyress's turn now to be stripped of his hair and he's screaming like a dying animal. Maybe I should be more forgiving, but I'm already on edge as it is. I don't need his obscene—and extremely loud—commentary on top of it all.

I'm not sure how long we spend being waxed and stripped and poked and pinched, but it must be hours. Finally, the three of the stylists take a step back from us and grin proudly.

"They look gorgeous!" Genie cries. The spring green color of her hair flounces as she bounces in place ecstatically.

Markle winks at me and then claps his hands together as his gold-tinted lips pull into a wide smile. "I might even be into them!"

Lativa's smile is so big that her stenciled and tattooed eyebrows go high up on her forehead and she's looking as accomplished as the three of them. I don't know if I even look like myself anymore, but I do know I'm grateful that they've placed a towel over my naked lap. I try to smile at them, and find that it's easy. They may be Capitol folk, but they are here to help me, and they deserve the praise for whatever miracle they've been able to perform on me and—in a special case—on Cyress.

"You look fab," Lativa nods and then points at Cyress. "I think you're ready."

"Ready for what?" Cyress squeaks in a very unmanly like way from the other side of the curtain. A quick flash of a grin splits across my face. Townies. They aren't exactly living the life, but I can bet he's never been in pain like me. I can bet he's never had a knife in the leg or a dislocated shoulder.

"Wait right here!" Markle commands as the two women prance out of the room. He looks over his shoulder at me. "You, my dear sir, are going to be quite the heartbreaker." Then they are gone.

"What other form of torture do you think they have lined up for us next, Cyress?" I call out, mostly because his whimpering is amusing me.

He must know I'm having too much fun because he weakly says, "Shut up, Peeta."

It's not long before a woman with tall legs and white blonde hair is coming through the doorway. Her lips are painted too pink, her eye shadow too blue, but she looks bare next to the three I've just spent several hours with. The first thing the woman does is smile at us and there is something about it that has a calming softness. I can immediately tell she's not like the other Capitol citizens I've seen so far.

"Which one of you is Peeta?" she says.

I smile. "Guilty."

She nods and then looks on the other side of the curtain. "You must be Cyress, then. I'm Portia. I'm going to be your stylist for the duration of your stay here." Coming from anyone else, I might have been offended by the casual use of those words, but she seems sincere and the way she is looking at me says that she is genuinely interested in helping.

"Yeah, that's great and all, Portia, but I'm dying over here. Did you really need to get rid of all my hair?" Cyress asks in a whiney voice. I don't mean to, because it's never bothered me before, but the mention of him dying brings a sudden swell of fear into my mind and it laps at my throat. It's hard to swallow. In just over a week, I might be dead.

Portia seems to notice my stiffness and heads toward Cyress without another glance at me. "Yes, unfortunately," she says crisply, "it is mandatory Capitol procedure. Now, put this on and go into the room across the hall. My prep team will be there to help you get dressed into your outfit for tonight."

She throws something at him and after another few minutes of exaggerating and whining, he's closing the door behind him as he leaves the room. Portia throws the curtain back and comes to stand next to the chair I've been stuck in all day. She looks down at me with chocolate colored eyes and smiles.

"I hope you're not afraid of me," she says. "I want you to know that I'm here to help you."

I nod because it's true. "No fear here," I tell her, though the Hunger Games is a whole other story. "Sorry you have to put up with District Twelve." I'm thinking mostly of the way Effie is treated and how unbearably annoying Cyress is when I say this.

She shakes her head. "My partner Cinna is the stylist for your ladies. We both asked for Twelve."

"Oh." I don't know what else to say to that, though I do wonder why they'd pick us. Everyone knows that District 12 are the losers, the ones that everyone passes over without so much as a glance. The tributes from 12 almost always die in the bloodbath at the beginning of the Games. We aren't anything special by a long shot.

"Well," Portia leans back on her heels and makes an upward motion with her finger. "Stand on up, then. Let me see what we've got here."

The towel slips from my waist as I follow instructions, but I'm not embarrassed. I've never really had a problem with nakedness, especially after the day Gale got attacked by a bear in the woods and I had to strip him down to nothing in order to find the whole of the wound. Lucky for him, I'd shot the animal through the brain before it could do any real damage.

Portia examines me before reaching for the robe hanging on the wall next to my chair. She throws it at me and I put it on.

"You truly aren't scared of me?" she says at last with a devious smile.

I tie the belt of the robe around my waist and raise an eyebrow. "No," I say slowly.

Her smile grows into more of a smirk and she brushes her index finger along her bottom lip. "Good. Then you won't run away when I set you on fire."

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Vesna has my hand in a death grip, shuddering away from the small torch that her stylist, Cinna, has extended toward her. I'd feel sorry for her if I wasn't busy eyeing up the one that Portia is holding near me.

"Let me get this straight," I say. "You're going to put us on a chariot and then light us on fire?"

Cinna laughs and his eyes sparkle as he looks over at me. "They are going to love it." Everyone knows what he means by "they." He doesn't need to elaborate. The only person I'm honestly concerned about loving it is Katniss, but I haven't seen her since we've been separated at the Remake Center this morning. People keep telling me I'll see her after the tribute parade, but I'm still anxious. I hope she's alright.

"Just trust us, Peeta," Portia insists. I meet her gaze and I know that I do. Hesitantly, I step up. Vesna is so attached that I practically lift her up to my side at the same time. She clings to me desperately as if I'm the only thing keeping her alive in this moment and she turns her face to me as our stylists begin arranging our long black capes perfectly behind us.

"This is worse than the reaping," Vesna declares. Her blue eyes are wide as any I've ever seen, her blonde hair pulled up into a series of delicate knots away from her face. She's beautiful in a perfect, symmetrical way, I realize, but it makes no impression on me. Her hair isn't dark. Her eyes aren't gray. She has no freckle by her left eye, no graceful confidence about her.

"Agreed," I say, just to appease her. "Just remember: stop, drop, and roll."

"Your faith in us knows no bounds," Cinna calls, but he sounds as if he's enjoying our terror. I wonder if Katniss likes him, and how well she'd been able to hold up during the remake process this afternoon. Did she cry out like Cyress because she's never been hurt or have her years working with fire and knives made her resistant like me?

Vesna's eyes grow even larger at my words. "Why would I want to roll? The horses could trample me!"

It's hard to believe what Cyress said earlier about her, when she says things like this. I force a smile. "You're right. That'd be tragic."

The sound of the crowd outside of the building is loud and excited as District 10 begins it's parade down the avenue. The doors can't hold back the sound and there's a constant rumble of enthusiasm as the program wears on. When District 11 leaves the building, the horses on our chariot are pulled forward to the doors. Vesna shrieks at the movement and squeezes my hand tighter.

"Will you hold my hand the whole time?" she asks once steadied. "I don't want to fall."

I hesitate, knowing how much Katniss hates the girl, but in the end I relent. It's just a hand. "Sure."

She beams at me. "Oh, thank you, Peeta."

"Alright!" exclaims Portia. "It's your turn. You both look beautiful!" I can hear it as the flames are set to the cape, but I feel no heat.

Cinna comes around to my side and fixes my headdress a little bit. "Smile. She's out there watching for you." His words are quiet so I know that he means them for my ears alone. I know exactly who he's talking about—why else would he only mention it to me? Still, they are enough to give me courage. I put on my best smile and take a deep breath, my hand flexing around Vesna's.

She gasps as the flames are ignited onto her cape and then our stylists are there, telling us to smile, smile, smile and that the crowd will love us. Then, the doors are creaking open and Vesna is yelling something at me but I can't hear her because the sound of the Capitol crowd is filling every space in my head.

My smile is immediate because someone in this crowd may very well be the difference between my life and death in the weeks to come. I wave as the horses pull us out into the avenue. The flames dance across my back and though Vesna is frozen for a moment, she's quickly following my lead. The crowd screams. I smile. They love me.

I'm barely aware of anything as I put on a good show, letting the fire lick at the night. Vesna and I are absolutely brilliant, but as beautiful as she is, I find myself thinking of Katniss and wondering what she thinks of this show-stopping display of flames. Where is she? Can she see me? Is she safe? Cant' let my anxiety show. I smile. I wave. The Capitol swoons and I know I will be all anyone can talk about until the training scores are announced.

Light of the fire flickers across Vesna's face as she pumps her fist in the air and grins for the Capitol's pleasure. I would have found it amusing for her awkward body, for her tough girl charade, if I hadn't seen the spark of real eagerness in her eyes. I smile still, telling myself it's just a trick of the light. Cyress' words ring in my head but I ignore them. They are nothing.

After nearly an hour of parading around the tribute's avenue, the District 12 chariot is being pulled back into the large basement cavity of the building we left from. My ears still pound with the sound of a million screaming voices. I stiffly pry Vesna's hand away from mine because physical contact is no longer necessary. She looks at me blankly before blushing and ducking her head.

"Sorry, Peeta," she mumbles.

"It's okay," I tell her as I rub the circulation back into my fingers.

Our prep teams are converging on us. Portia and Cinna are praising us for keeping such composure and how elegant it was. Yes. We were magnificent, possibly the most memorable of any tribute pair of any previous of the Games. The Capitol will not soon forget us. But that doesn't matter to me, even if it means I will have thousands of sponsors while in the arena. No, the only thing that matters is Katniss and where she is right now.

"Portia," I say as she lifts the headdress off my hair. "Where is Katniss?"

She looks slightly nervous and drops her eyes, forcing a smile as cameras and victors and tributes flood the floor. "Katniss and the other tribute companions have been graced with the honor of attending a private dinner with President Snow."

The ecstasy that the parade has left me with is gone in an instant. My stomach clenches, head spins, knees shake. I don't know how dangerous President Snow is, but how good can he be if he's left Panem in a state of constant hunger and oppression? If he's in continual support of the Hunger Games?

"She's at his house?" I ask, my voice strained.

Portia's fake smile only gets faker, and seeing that is what tips me off to the severity of the situation. How much danger Katniss is in because of me. "Peeta," Portia scolds playfully, forcefully, for the dozens of ears within range, "you should be happy for her. A dinner with the president is of the utmost honor."

But we both know it's not true. She's a target now, because of me. Because I've dragged her into this mess of the Capitol where people want me to die. Because if there's anything I know, it's that Katniss will do what she feels necessary to get me through the next few weeks alive. She may not feel the same way about me as I do her, but if she's ready to throw herself on a train to the Capitol for my sake, then there is no limit to what other things she may do.

The terror is immediate. Gripping. I have to remind myself to breathe, to smile at the cameras and reporters, the old victors and scowling tributes that look my way.

Even though I've not yet been placed in the arena, the Games have already begun.