Here's chapter 10. I'll try and update more frequently now that I'm getting to the exciting part.

Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Narnia OR The Hunger Games.

I was roused at seven o'clock in the morning by Portia, who attempted to replicate Effie's high voice as she announced to me, "It's a big day!" It lacked the verve that our escort typically conveyed with it.

When I didn't respond to her greeting, she said, "Change into these. I'll wait in the hall." With that, she set something down on the bed and left.

I sat up. Laid across the bedclothes were a simple shirt and pants – I'd heard from Haymitch the day before that our final dressings would take place in the catacombs beneath the arena shortly before the beginning of the games. I didn't like the idea of being underground, but it wasn't as if I had much of a choice.

I changed into the clothing, and shortly thereafter Portia lead me to the roof. Haymitch was standing near to the exit of the stairwell, waiting for me. "Give a minute," he said sharply, and Portia immediately backed away like a frightened animal.

"Haymitch, what—"

"Just shut up and listen. We you get in there, they'll have all sorts of things laid out for you in the Cornucopia. Weapons, provisions, that kind of thing. I want you to listen to me very carefully." To my surprise, he was sober. He stared into my eyes with a manic intensity that gave me the urge to flee after Portia.

"All right," I replied as confidently as I could manage, given my situation.

"Do not, under any circumstances, go for any of it. It's how they like to kick things off – with a bloodbath. I'll put it this way: if you run for a nice shiny weapon on the top of the pile, you'll die. I don't care how fast you are."

His advice seemed intelligent enough, but I began to wonder about how I would manage this if I lacked a weapon or any sort of supplies.

Almost reading my thoughts, Haymitch added, "Just run. Get out of there, and find water. You're smart, Peter. You can do this."

I sucked in a deep breath to calm my nerves. "All right," I said. "Thank you."

He gave me a slight shove. "Go. Stay alive."

I walked hastily across the roof to meet Portia, who was standing with her neck craned towards the sky. Seemingly out of nowhere, a strange oblong plane appeared and hovered above us.

"What is that?" I demanded immediately.

Portia looked at me as if I had gone mad. "It's a hovercraft, Peter. Honestly, what do they teach you in District 12?"

A ladder descended from this alleged 'hovercraft', and Portia nodded towards it. With a tentative hand, I grasped the rung. The moment both me feet were planted firmly upon it, a paralysing force struck me and I could not move.

I would have shouted in alarm if I had been permitted to speak, but even opening my mouth was an impossibility. I was lifted upwards, into the belly of the hovercraft, where I was met by a physician of some sort with a massive syringe.

"Peter, this is your tracker. We'll be able to keep tabs on you in the arena." With that, she stabbed the sharp end into my forearm and pressed the plunger.

Once the needle was withdrawn, I was released from the strange grip of the ladder and Portia was quickly exfiltrated from the roof. The hovercraft lurched forward suddenly, and I tripped and nearly fell.

"Careful now," Portia warned. "Wouldn't want you going into the arena already injured, now would we?"

I followed her down a narrow corridor to a compartment in which there was breakfast. I was once again reminded that it was 'all at my disposal', though that did not quell the anxiety that turned my stomach. I settled on a small buttered roll and retreated to the corner to gnaw on it.

I did not speak for the duration of the trip; not when Portia tried to strike up a conversation, not when the windows darkened and most certainly not as we descended down a ladder into the underground tunnels that ran beneath the arena. We were directed to what was referred to as my 'Launch Room', from which I would be sent into the arena.

"Why don't you take a shower, Peter? I'll tell you, there usually isn't much

An attendant arrived shortly after with my clothing, made of thin and water-resistant material I had only just begun to grow accustomed to. Portia ran her hand over the fabric and nodded approvingly. "This'll reflect your body heat," she told me. "I assume the Gamemakers have some chilly nights in store for you lot."

I dressed slowly, as my hands were shaking. This nervousness was quite familiar to me after years of experience in battle, but I had never grown used to it. This was worse, however, at some subliminal level. I supposed it was because these weren't enemies but rather children, and because I was alone. Each time I had ridden into battle prior to this Edmund had been there, and Susan not far behind with the line. This would be the first time that I faced such violence in the bitterness of solitude.

"Do you have your token?" Portia asked as I sat in a chair, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees. I nodded, refusing to indulge her with my words, and extended my wrist for her to see the timepiece.

"Good. It was very difficult for me to get that cleared for you, you know. The prefer it when you don't know what time it is."

"I know," I said finally. "Cinna spoke to me about it last night." It was amusing, how long ago that seemed.

"Yes, I expected he would," Portia replied. "Would you like something to eat?"

I shook my head. Though I would likely regret it later, I was feeling far too ill to even think about food.

I could feel time growing short, my judgement based on Portia's increasingly desperate pleas for me to eat, and as this happened I began to wonder, not for the first time, why we had been sent here. In Narnia, we had served a purpose – freeing the country from the chains of the White Witch and thereby fulfilling the ancient prophecy involving two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve. But why here? Why would Aslan send me to die and my family to forever be trapped in this hostile world?

Suddenly, a smooth voice filled the room: "Tributes, please prepare for launch."

Fear blossomed again in my chest, doubling again and again. I was going to die. I didn't have an army, or Oreius and his strategic plans, or my little brother. I would be lucky to survive the day, but to win? It was impossible, undoable.

"Peter, it's time for you to go," Portia said, but I didn't react. I couldn't move, I couldn't think of anything but my impending doom, and how this wasn't a battle, it was an execution . . .

"Come on, Peter." Portia took me by the arm and forcibly guided me towards a metal plate on the far side of the chamber. She pushed me onto it, and then squeezed my shoulder in a reassuring manner. "You're smart. You can do this."

A clear cylinder descended from the ceiling, and Portia stepped back as it came between us. I pressed my hands against it as if to test its strength, and as I did so the plate on which I stood began to rise.

This was it. I was dead, then. I closed my eyes and tried to get a grip on my rapid heart rate by breathing in and out, slow and even, but I couldn't manage it.

I felt a cool breeze on my face, and I opened my eyes to see an enormous metal Cornucopia, and beyond that a mixed woodland and a lake.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 74th Hunger Games begin!" The voice crackled throughout the air, flowing out from an unknown origin. I had been told previously that we were to stay on our plates until we heard a gong, but the consequences of refusing to heed to warning I did not know. I elected that it would be wise to stay where I was. Of course, there was always the possibility that I could faint.

All the tributes were in a ring around this Cornucopia, evenly spaced on their plates in the grass. I saw Katniss a few to my left, the boy from 10 who resembled Edmund a couple to my right, and even Cato, who was nearly obscured from my view by the pile of riches at the mouth of the horn.

For a moment, I felt hope. There were some things spread away from the central pile, like a few knapsacks and food items. I could collect something without hurtling right into the thick of it, and perhaps I would stand a better chance.

The gong then rung out, and it began.