Peeta POV

I can feel grass rubbing against my cheek and a sharp rock digging into my ear. I slowly open my eyes to see the arena spread out before me, the deep orange glow of the sunset disappearing behind the treetops. My head aches and I'm not game to move it yet. I wriggle my fingers, grasping at the loose dirt beneath them. I gamely move my right leg and despite vague feelings of pins and needles, it's fine.

My left leg is another story.

The slightest movement sends a blinding white lick of pain up and down my leg, shooting down into my foot and fighting its way up my hip. I close my eyes and bite my lip, fighting my way through it, trying to ensure I don't pass out again. Knowing I'm watching the sunset means I've been out all day, so I'm damned lucky I haven't bled out. But the fact that my injury has been left unattended for so long makes me hesitant to even look at it.

I slowly lift my head, resting on my elbows to push my upper body off the ground. It's not a pretty sight. Congealed blood covers my thigh, the pants that were once a dark green now a muddy brown, both from the blood and the fight in the downpour. The ground beneath my leg is rough and coarse from dried blood.

I raise myself a little higher and sit up so that I'm no longer supporting myself on my hands. I pull the backpack from my shoulders – which I'm surprised to find still attached to me – and pull out my canteen along with the blanket. I pull aside the material of my pants to look at my injury again, and it's still no more visually appealing than it was yesterday. I carefully pour some of the water across it, trying to clean some of the blood and dirt away from the wound. It stings like hell, but I grit my teeth and fight my way through it. It's not ideal, but I rip a long strip of the blanket off and wrap it around my thigh as tightly as I can, tying it at the side. It's not until I've leant back again, my body exhausted from the effort it took to try and clean the wound, that I notice it, just a little to my right.

A parachute.

I can't help the little thrill that runs through me knowing that something Katniss had sent specifically to me was sitting so close by. I ignore the sharp pain in my leg as I twist, reaching out to clasp the cold metal of the rounded box. I drag it towards me, the parachute twisting itself in the small twigs and snagging on rocks. I drop it into my lap and eye the parachute. It was still in decent condition, and it would probably work as another bandage for my leg when I need it.

I rip it from the cords that connect it to the box containing whatever Katniss deemed worthy to send me, carefully flattening it, folding it, and placing it in the front pocket of the backpack. I wrap the cords around my hand, making them into a small circle and place it with the parachute.

Finally, I can't control my curiosity anymore and carefully open the top of the box. It's not small like most of the parachutes I've seen before, more the size of a shoebox, and the minute I open it, I understand why.

Katniss has sent me food.

My heart drops a little, knowing I had hoped for medicine, but I think my earlier assumptions may be correct, that it's just too expensive. I guess food will give me strength, and that's better than nothing.

I reach into the box and pull out a small loaf of bread that, while no longer hot, is still fresh, a small bottle of what looks like orange juice and a flat container that, upon opening, reveals Katniss' favourite lamb stew. I smile to myself, knowing that she picked this intentionally. My stomach rumbles at the smell, and I realise I'm ravenous. I don't care that I'm covered in blood, that the faint smell of vomit still lingers in the air. I need to eat, and I need to now.

I try to eat as slowly as I can, savouring the taste, knowing that I shouldn't rush it, lest I bring it back up again. I'm about halfway through when I glance back at the box and notice the small folded up piece of paper. My heart thuds as I tentatively reach a hand towards it and clutch it in my palm. I know it's from Katniss. It has to be from Katniss.

My thoughts of food abandoned, I put the container down and finger the corner of the note nervously. I want to know what's in the note more than anything, but there's another part of me that's so nervous to open it that it almost makes my head spin.

That, of course, could also be a result of losing a shitload of blood.

I slowly unfold it, and am slightly disappointed to see that it's not handwritten, instead typed in careful bold script. But then I see the words; all disappointment flees. And I know.

I'm going to help you like I know you're helping me. Come home.

I stare at it, as though if I take my eyes of it, it will disappear. I know that Katniss finds it difficult to find the right words to what she wants to say, and I also know she's not going to proclaim any sort of feelings she may have for me on a note. That's why I know that every word on this piece of paper was thought about carefully and that she means every single bit of it. I guess Haymitch finally told her.

I reach for the stew and begin eating again, slow, careful, measured bites. I wonder how he told her, what he said, how she took it. I don't suppose she would have taken it very well, but I hope that Haymitch was at least a little sensitive in telling her – although I know it's a lot to ask. As I eat I alternate between looking at the note and up into the deepening twilight, waiting for today's tribute roll call. It's not long before the music begins and the images flare to life in the night sky.

It's the girls from 6 and 2, and my friend with the club. It seems it was a busy day in the arena, and we're down to 9. After only three days, we've lost 15. At this rate, the Capitol will be lucky if this years' games last a week.

The pain in my leg is making me weary, and before I doze off I put the uneaten bread and remaining stew back in the box, placing it in my backpack. There's no point in me moving now, when its night and I won't be able to see anything anyway. I eye a cluster of low-lying trees to my right and figure I've got enough energy to pull myself to them and hide within their ground sweeping branches. I slide the backpack over my shoulder and slowly drag myself across the ground until I'm ensconced in the branches and leaves. Their deep green manages to camouflage me well enough, and the mud that still covers my face and arms hides my pale skin. It's not the most convincing of hiding places, by in my current state it's the best I can do.

I close my eyes and wait for sleep, thinking of Katniss as I drift off.


Peeta.

I can hear my name being called in my sleep, but I ignore it. Mother knows today is the only day I can sleep in, so the fact that she's trying to wake me up seriously pisses me off.

Peeta.

The voice comes again, and I'm confused. It doesn't sound angry, or sharp, or short like it normally does, like she's almost spitting out the end of the word in disgust.

Peeta.

Now it sounds frustrated and annoyed, and I understand. I open my eyes. I'm not in my bed, back home in 12. No. I'm hidden under a tree, battling a leg injury that I'm worried is going to cause me to bleed out.

And I'm staring at Katniss.

Part of my brain registers that this can't be real, can't be true. But the other part, the part that believes she is capable of anything, wants to reach out and touch her, run a finger gently down her smooth olive skin, to confirm that she's there. So I do.

And she is.

My face must register my shock through the mud and dirt and she smiles.

"Don't be so surprised," she says quietly, her grey eyes bright with amusement. "You really think I'd leave you alone in here?"

"You – you can't be, though. I'm in the arena, Katniss. They wouldn't even tell you where it is, let alone send you in here!" She holds a finger to my lips, and leans in, whispering in my ear.

"You know as well as I do Peeta, that an arena is precisely the kind of place they want me," she says softly. Her breath tickles my ear, and despite feeling like I'm on deaths door, I can't deny the reaction my body has to her. She smiles wryly at me as she leans back on one hand, then glances down at my leg and her smile quickly fades. "I hope you know why I wasn't able to send you medicine."

I nod. "Yeah, I think so. Too much," I say, hopefully cryptically. I'm not stupid enough to think the Capitol wouldn't be able to hear us if we speak loudly enough.

"Got it in one. We're trying, I hope you know that." I nod again, and she reaches out, gently brushing aside a limp lock of hair curling across my forehead. "I know what Haymitch told you, about….about me."

"I hope you're not mad he told me."

"No. I was angrier more than anything that he took your mind off of your games to do something like that." I shake my head.

"But I wanted to. You know…. You know how much you mean to me." She looks away at that, embarrassed, but I forge ahead anyway. "I'd do anything for you, Katniss, I really would." She looks back at me, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks again, and she rests a hand on my arm.

"Do whatever you want," she starts, "Just don't die on me."

"I won't," I whisper. I simply look at her, trying to memorise her face. The faint crease lines between her eyebrows, the shimmer of her grey eyes, the way her braid falls across her shoulder like a coiled rope. The faint pressure of her hand on my arm is comforting, and I find myself relaxing. I close my eyes. When I open them again, she's gone.

I can still feel the warmth of her touch on my arm.


I wake the next morning a little concerned for my mental health. I know the conversation I had with Katniss hadn't actually happened, but I had felt so lucid at the time, and she felt so real, that I could almost conceivably believe that she had been here last night. But I know I've lost a lot of blood, and watching tributes in the arena have hallucinations in other years gives me some kind of idea that what is happening to me isn't entirely unusual in this situation.

It's quiet in the arena – there's a stillness that remains, that hasn't seemed to have shifted since the first day. The absence of noise and life almost breaks my heart with its solitude.

I pull the remains of last nights' meal out of my bag, and finish off the stew, though I leave the bread, knowing I have to continue to ration. The stew tastes just as good as yesterday, probably even better. Once I finish eating, I know I have to continue on - I can't linger here forever.

I struggle to sit up, and take a look over my makeshift bandage. There are slight bloodstains on it, but it isn't soaked like I expected it to be. Maybe, just maybe the blood has started clotting. I elect to leave it as is at the moment, and hold on to the parachute material for as long as I can. If, assuming I'm right, and medication is too expensive, I may have to continue to perform my own rudimentary first aid on my injury for a while yet.

I slowly drag myself from underneath the cluster of trees, and once I'm at the edge I use the lowest branch to help pull myself to my feet. All the blood rushes from my head – it's been well over 24 hours since I was in a vertical position – and I can't put too much pressure on my leg. I grimace at the pain that spears down from my thigh, and realise I won't be able to walk very far without some form of additional support. I glance around and notice a long, relatively sturdy looking branch that seems to have broken off one of the trees during my downhill tussle with 9. I limp my way over to it, and reach down as best I can to grasp it and hold it like a cane.

It's sufficient, and I figure it's better than practically jumping around on one foot, which I know I was headed for without something to assist me. I look at the sun, pretending that I know what I'm doing and what I'm looking for.

Let's face it. I have no idea where I'm going.

I head towards what I think is the hilly area of the arena. I don't even know if I'm right, but I have to head somewhere. In the end, it doesn't really matter what direction I go in – if I venture too far away from everyone else, the gamemakers will just bring me back anyway.

The day is long, and the further I walk, the worse my injury feels. My steps become slow and measured, and I'm careful so that I don't trip myself over. The gamemakers have obviously decided it's time to pump up the temperature, and sweat drips down my back, down my face as the sun burns.

Suddenly I hear the faint sound of rushing water, and its music to my ears. After being in such a mute arena, any sound other than my own breath is welcoming. I trudge my way closer, until I find myself standing on the bank of a fast-flowing river. The water looks fresh and cool, and I realise it's my opportunity to clean my wound. I remove my backpack, placing it on the dry ground alongside my make-shift cane, and hobble my way over to the waters' edge. I take a quick look around and shrug. I guess the first time Katniss sees me with my clothes off is going to be on a national broadcast.

I carefully strip my pants off, wincing as the material catches on the gash. I throw them on the rock beside me - I'll get to them once I've finished with my leg. It's not a pretty sight when I pull the makeshift bandage away – blood congealed and dried to black merges with the matted and mangled flesh and fresh blood that continues to seep out slowly.

I clean it as best as I can then cover it with the parachute material, wrapping the parachute strings around it, trying to keep it as secure as possible. I throw the pants in the river and rinse the blood off them, then lay them back out across the rock. It's dangerous to be so out in the open, but the cool water is a welcome relief and after hobbling around all day I really can't be assed moving.

I lay there in the sun for well over an hour, until I figure I've pushed my luck as far as I can. I pull on my slightly damp pants and am slipping the backpack on when I hear the sounds of giggling and laughing, and I curse to myself. The last thing I need is an interaction between myself and other tributes, because I know damned well I won't survive. I try to be as quiet as possible as I struggle my way over into the tree line. At least over the noise of the river, they're not likely to hear me.

The roots on the trees around here are massive, and there is one wide and high enough for me to sit behind. The same type of vines that I saw on my second day in the arena cover the ground, and I know it's an opportunity for me to use them again. I rip them out of the ground and have just finished draping and placing them as naturally as I can over the roots, when I spot a flash of colour move out of the trees to my right towards the river. I dive under the vines, and instantly regret it. I hit my leg against the root and almost double over in pain, biting sheer through my lip in the agony. I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, but I'll take that any day over being discovered.

At first I think it's the tributes from 3 again, but a quick glance over the top of the tree root shows me two blonde tributes, covered in blood, their faces wreathed in smiles. I watch as they joke, and laugh about the male tribute from two who they killed today. I watch as they clean their weapons and clothes in the river. I watch as they discuss who is left and how they are going to kill them. I watch as the girl pantomimes another tribute dying.

I'm too busy watching to hear the person come up from behind me until I feel the hand on my shoulder. I tense, but I don't dare turn around. I know my eyes are wide in terror.

"Hello Peeta," a voice says softly, and I relax. I turn, which isn't easy when I'm covered in vines, and smile.

"Hello Hadley."


Earlier…

If Effie saw me right now, she probably wouldn't think too much of me as I trudge through the woods. My clothes are matted with dirt and blood, my nails are more stained than I've ever seen them in my life and I know that if I looked in a mirror, my hair would look like Betsy Waterson's after we've finished playing kickball at recess.

But at least I'm still alive, because that almost wasn't the case this morning.

I'd found the fact that I could walk relatively quietly an advantage I didn't know I'd have. The arena had been quiet – too quiet, really - and the slightest noise made me jump. It hadn't stopped me, though. I thought I'd made my way pretty stealthily around the arena, taking Katniss' advice more than anything else I'd learned. She was a hunter, so I figured she knew what she was talking about.

I'd seen a few tributes along the way, but never close enough to result in talking to them or fighting with them. I'd found water pretty easily, and had even come across the abandoned backpack of a tribute who'd already died.

I'd been feeling pretty good since yesterday, when I'd received a parachute with food. It had tasted so good, some kind of lamb stew and I'd gobbled it so quick I'd felt sick. But I'd managed to keep it down, and had smiled at the note Katniss had sent to me.

"Be a hunter, and observe."

I'd been a bit confused, but whatever. At least she'd been sending me stuff.

I'd been sliding around a rock face, singing the valley song silently to myself when I'd caught the flash of red to my right. My heart had thumped like crazy and I swear I'd almost shit myself.

It had been another tribute.

She'd seen me at the same time I'd seen her, and we'd just stared at each other. It had been the girl from 4, Wylee. I'd remembered her from training – she'd spent most of her time in the edible plants section, so I'd had no idea if she was good at anything, fighting-wise. I remembered, more than anything, thinking she had nice hair. At first I'd thought she was going to keep going, that maybe she didn't want to kill me. Then a smile had crept across her face, and holy crap, she'd looked evil.

It was action time.

I'd reached towards my belt, where my trusty axe had been tucked into the back since day one. She slowly sidled towards me, one hand on her hip, the other gripping something. I hadn't been able to see what it was from the angle I'd been standing.

"How's it going,12?" she'd asked when we'd almost been face to face. I'd wondered if she wanted to trash talk more than fight. I hadn't said anything. I'd been pretty nervous, and hadn't wanted my voice to waver, and give me away. "Got any kills yet?"

"Not yet," I'd muttered. A smirk had crossed her face.

"Not yet, huh? You actually think you're going to?"

"Why not?"

"Why not?" she'd snorted. "You really think District 12 is going to have another tribute this year who does something? Katniss Everdeen was nothing but a fluke." It had pissed me off that she brushed Katniss aside so easily.

"Katniss was not a fluke, 4." If she couldn't be bothered using my name, I wasn't going to use hers. Her bitchiness had done nothing but get rid of my nerves. Her eyes had sparked, and I realised she'd been enjoying the bickering. Weirdo.

"Oh, so you think you're going to do something in here, do you?" Wylee had drawled. I'd glanced down and seen it was a knife she held. She'd been close enough that she could just stick me with it. We'd just continued to look at each other, like a stand-off.

Suddenly she pounced on me, sliced at my arm and ripped at my hair. Crap, she fought like a girl. I'd yanked her hair back, figured I'd give her a taste of her own medicine. She'd squealed, and it had been such a pitiful noise I'd almost laughed at her. We'd grunted and grappled for what felt like forever, until she'd poked me in the eye, the little bitch. My vision fuzzy, I'd fallen to the ground, and she'd leaned forward, crushing her foot down onto my chest. It had hurt like hell, but I knew I had an axe in my belt and I knew how to use it. I'd shoved my arm under my back, and she'd looked at me like I was stupid. I think she'd been more surprised than anything when I'd pulled the axe from behind my back and swung it toward her leg. She'd fallen to the ground.

Her foot had stayed on my chest. Along with a pool of blood.

Holy shit.

I'd cut her foot off.

Her howls of pain had finally registered and I'd looked at her on the ground nearby, her body writhing around in pain. The blood that had poured out of her leg had been enough to make me sick, and I'd spewed all over the ground, knocking the foot off my chest as far away as I possibly could in the process.

"You little bitch!" She had managed to screech in between her sobs. Anything she'd said after that had been unintelligible, until her howls had become whimpers and her breathing shallow. I'd been frozen in horror. I couldn't believe what I'd done.

What felt like hours later, I'd heard a cannon sound, and rolled over to see her still, her eyes glazed over. I'd known I had to move, had to get away before the hovercraft came. I'd stumbled away, as far away as I possibly could. The ground was still rocky, but I'd been close to the wood line, and had headed for there. I'd pulled my jacket off and thrown it to the ground, continued to walk away from it. I hadn't wanted her blood anywhere near me.

I'd killed someone. I was 14 years old, and I'd just killed someone.

I kept walking and walking, trying to calm myself down as I remembered that morning. All I could see over and over again in my head was her foot. I'm not stupid, and I know that killing other tributes is the only way to get home, but I hadn't ever really thought how bad it might be.

Its times like this I really miss my mother. I miss 12, I miss my family and friends, dammit, I even miss stupid Betsy Waterson and her shitty hair.

I come across the tributes from one, and follow them for a while, as quickly and quietly as possible. I watch as they laze around by the river, and I'm pissed off that I can't take advantage of the cool water while they're there.

That's when I see him.

I watch him, and I'm so happy to see a friendly face that I almost call out to him. But I remember the other tributes and keep myself quiet. I watch as he quickly lays out some vines across a big tree root, and notice that he's limping. I wonder what happened there. He crawls under the vines, and then he's gone.

Shit, his camouflage stuff is good.

I figure there's no harm in hanging out with him for a while, and I know he's not going to hurt me anyway. I need a break after the stuff that went down this morning with 4. I quietly make my way over to where he's hiding, then drop down to all fours and crawl the rest of the way. The last thing we need is for 1 to see us now. I'm right behind him when I reach out a hand through the vines and touch his shoulder. He freezes.

"Hello Peeta," I say softly, and I feel him relax. He turns, and a smile graces his face.

"Hello Hadley."


A/N - I'm not going to lie, this chapter was really hard for me to get through.

I know it's a little different to other chapters, I only hope that you enjoy it. I felt the need to show a bit of what Hadley was experiencing, other than just through Katniss. Special thanks to i-live-in-district12, who gives me a thumbs up or a kick in the ass when required.

I'm not sure when the next update will be, as for the next two weeks I'm going to be immersing myself in the madness that is writing submissions for Prompts in Panem. So it probably won't be until after that. For those of you who have so kindly followed/favourited A Hard Answer to Question, same goes there. I actually had a chapter written for that and then I hated where I was going with it, so I dumped it. Hence there's been a bit of a delay there.

Your favouriting, following and reviewing is absolutely appreciated. Thank you. :)