I just want to thank you all, once again, for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following ToM! I don't get around to answering all of your reviews, but I do read and cherish every single one. Thank you! I'm also really humbled that almost all the later chapters (posted in September) have more than 1000 unique visitors each this month. Wow! That's 1000 persons reading what I write, that's pretty amazing! From countries as diverse as the US, Vietnam, Bangladesh, Aruba and Saudia Arabia! Just gotta love the world of fan fiction. And the world of The Hunger Games, obviously.

Okay, so onto chapter 21! At the end of chapter 20, as you may remember, Katniss and Peeta discovered that they were having a baby. Which would normally be a great thing. Except, of course, you're a victor. And if you're Katniss.

Chapter 21: When the world stops

We know we can't hold them off for long, our prep teams will be waiting. They'll be working on me in particular, of course – being a woman, there is always more pressure on me to look amazing for Capitol events than there is for Peeta. But we have to look perfect for the reaping – and frankly, just getting us to beauty base zero will take a lot of work this morning. Actually getting us to even approach Capitol standards will be an almost impossible task. Peeta looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and I'm still half-drugged, my pupils are enormous.

I suddenly feel guilty. It's not just me, not anymore. The drugs are affecting whoever is growing inside of me as well. I know I owe this baby a lot. I will hopefully owe Prim's life to it, and I already owe it the fact that I'm willing to risk my own child being reaped to save my sister. That thought is so horrific on so many levels that I just can't allow myself to go there.

I decide that the drugs and the drinking will have to stop. If I can't sleep, then I can't sleep.

But no more Capitol drugs. No more liquor.

"Let's not tell them quite yet," Peeta says, helping me stand up. I'm still dizzy, but a splash of cold water in my face in the bathroom helps at least somewhat. "Snow already knows." He pauses. "Don't you, Mr President?" he says aloud, looking expectantly at the walls.

I roll my eyes, but put the little white Capitol creation inside a plastic bag and hide it in my suitcase, ready for the train to the Capitol. I don't really know why - perhaps so that I can double check the result later, when I'm no longer on drugs and when I'll surely get paranoid about the test result. How I'm going to survive several weeks in the Capitol, mentoring in the Hunger Games, I have no idea.

My prep team fuss over me. They tell me I'm so thin and pale and drawn, tell me that my skin is dry ("you must remember to moisturize!"), they are shocked at the state of my eyebrows, how my nails are bitten down, not to mention my frizzy hair. I try to shut them out – I do care about them, and I know they care about me – a lot – but right now, the hair on my legs isn't really something I want to use my energy on. It's just not enough to shock me.

There is something different about them, though. There's something in Venia's eyes. In the way Octavia's hands shake when she's doing my nails. Her hands never shake. And Flavius is too quiet.

I'm too tired and hungover to ask questions, though. I allow them to do whatever they want with me, with their sprays, creams, lotions, waxes and glitter. They don't glam me up too much, though – they always save that for the Capitol. The reapings are somewhat more subdued, so we don't crash too much with the District 12 setting.

The dress is different, though. I instantly see that it's not created by Cinna. It's too… Capitol. It's clearly created by someone who doesn't know me. It's somehow not sophisticated, there is nothing of me in it, nothing of District 12.

It feels foreign.

"What's happened to Cinna? Has he been assigned to another district?" I ask. Venia goes pale, and suddenly it seems like none of them is willing to look at me. "Is he here?" I ask them, and Octavia shakes her head. She presses her lips together, and continues working on my nails. But her hands are still shaking.

I get the message. Don't talk.

I remember the last time I saw Cinna – after the toasting. How scared I was, that he'd be punished for creating the glowing wedding dress for me.

As we're waiting inside the Justice Building for the ceremony to begin, I'm pacing the floor. Peeta is slumped in a chair, his eyes never leaving my lower body, and Haymitch is drinking. Prim, the baby, Cinna, the reaping, going to the Capitol… I suddenly find that I'm longing for more pills, more of anything that could take me away from this place. I'm starting to envy Haymitch his bottle.

The reaping is eerily similar to last year. The relentless sunshine. The children in their pens, like sheep ready for slaughter. Effie's extravagant clothes. Haymitch's blood alcohol content is not the same, though, he's unmistakably pissed this year, I can smell the alcohol on him from several yard away. The fear in the eyes of the children is the same, as is that in their parents'.

The two guarded suitcases with the slips of paper with the names of all the children of District 12 aged 12 through 18.

Did Snow hear about my pregnancy in time? Or would he make sure Prim is reaped anyway? Or perhaps he never intended to reap her, at least not this year?

I see the peacekeepers pour the paper slips into the two bowls. And then Effie says the dreaded words: "Ladies first!"

And my world stops.

She chooses one slip of paper, more quickly than she did last year, there is less hesitation. She opens it, pauses – then says – "Renna Emmerson!"

I try to keep all emotion away from my face – it would be mocking Renna's parents to show my intense relief that Prim will get to live another year. Prim will get to turn 16. She will live another summer and winter, safe from the Hunger Games.

I almost miss the boy tribute's name: "Rayn Hanton!"

I see them together on stage – both are from the Seam, that's clear from their clothes and their black hair, as well as the leanness of their bodies. Rayn is 17, I vaguely remember him as one of the too many children living three houses down from us when we lived in the Seam before moving to the Victors' Village. Renna is 18, and she was a year below me in school, so I've seen her around. The odds clearly weren't in her favor – being reaped in the very last reaping for which she was eligible. If she'd just made it through today she would've been safe forever.

They both look like the careers will have them for breakfast.

We are whisked off to the train as the two teenagers say goodbye to their loved ones. I refuse to let myself think about it – I know it's selfish, I'm their mentor after all, but I have enough with my own problems right now. Besides, they will be dead anyway. Even if they had been career trained, there is no way that Snow will let a District 12 tribute win ever again. He won't allow us the satisfaction of mentoring a victor, nor will he allow us to set an example. The other districts have to see me and Peeta fail, again and again.

We meet Haymitch on the train. He's already found the bar, not surprisingly. We're waiting for the two tributes, then we'll leave District 12. For Renna and Rayn, it will most likely be the last time they'll see District 12. And for Peeta and me?

You never know.

"They are so screwed," Haymitch slurs. His drinking used to annoy me, but now I just feel sorry for him. He's never this drunk at this time of the day, not unless he's trying very hard to chase off some unusually persistent ghosts. In this case, it's not difficult to imagine just what he's trying to forget.

He pours himself another drink, and then he makes me one as well. "Saint Peeta over there doesn't drink, but I'm guessing you'll want one, sweetheart," he says, winking at me. I scowl thinking that he's starting to associate me with the need to chemically numb my brain already, but I have to admit to myself that with the amount of pills and alcohol I've been known to ingest, he may have a point. And now…

I shake my head. "No thanks."

His Seam gray eyes study me carefully, but I'm just looking out the window, ignoring him. "Well, suit yourself. More for me, I guess."

"So what's the plan?" Peeta says.

"Huh?"

"The plan. For the mentoring."

Oh. Haymitch and I had made pretty extensive plans to prepare for the 76th Hunger Games, but now… Nothing. We have given them up already, I realize guiltily. I've been too busy obsessing over making a baby to even consider that the lives of others are at stake here as well.

"I guess we have to follow the master plan we made last year," Haymitch says, rummaging through a cabinet for another bottle. "You know, since it worked so brilliantly last year." His voice is dripping with sarcasm, but the plan actually did work quite well. District 12 rarely has a tribute surviving long enough to be among the top 8, not to mention the last two.

Although that was probably more because of Emilia herself than our mentoring.

"They could surprise us, you know," Peeta says. "That's what Emilia did. She was someone else, someone much stronger, than she appeared to be at first."

Through the window I see Rayn and Renna approaching, together with Effie and a whole entourage of camera people, as well as a large crowd from District 12 – they have come to say goodbye. They hold up three fingers of their right hand in their honor as the two teenagers enter the train. They look so young and scared. "It doesn't matter anyway," I murmur. "They're going to die."

Oh, how I wish I could take that drink.

Effie is the only person making dinner that night nearly bearable, by trying to engage us in some kind of conversation. I'm acutely aware of the fact that Renna is only one year younger than me, yet I feel like I am an adult, and she is a child. They are both typical Seam children – they can't keep their eyes off the food, and after last winter, it's not as if I can blame them. I make sure they are both served second helpings, as they need to put on as much weight as they possibly can before they go into the arena.

I hadn't expected to be this hungry myself – I rarely am, not when I know that I'm on my way to the Capitol – but for some reason, I'm ravenous. I glare murderously at Peeta when he dares to take the last cheese bun after dinner. Haymitch snickers at me, and Peeta just looks puzzled by my reaction, but gives me the cheese bun, and peace is restored.

And through it all, I keep telling myself that I can't get attached to them. I can't let myself begin to like them, let alone to hope. If I am to have any chance of protecting myself in this, surviving mentoring Seam children destined to die year after year, I have to seal off the part of myself that cares. The part of myself that can be hurt.

That night, knowing I can't take any Capitol drugs to numb me, to perhaps take the edge off my nightmares or at the very least knock me out enough to get some sleep in between the screaming and thrashing, there is only one thing left for me to do.

When Peeta comes out of the shower, he seems surprised to find me stark naked in our bed. I tug his t-shirt, forcing him down on the bed, and I straddle him, kissing him deeply and greedily without any further explanation. He tears his mouth away from mine for a few seconds, trying to say something, but I silence him with another kiss, my hands already roaming his chest underneath the t-shirt. I can feel him hardening underneath me already, his erection rubbing me just where I like it the most. I grind my hips against his, increasing the friction even further, moaning into his mouth as I do so. His hands have already found my breasts, and I wince when I suddenly find that they are more sensitive than they usually are, almost sore. Peeta, always sensitive to my emotions, immediately senses this, and looks at me questioningly when I break the kiss. Then, suddenly, I find myself lying underneath him, he's flipped us both over and he's now pinning me down on the bed.

"Are you sure this is okay?" He whispers hoarsely in my ear as I touch hic cock over his boxer shorts, his hips buck reflexively against my hand as I do. "With the baby…"

I freeze for a second, then I nod slowly. "Yeah," I say to him. "All the pregnant women would ask my mother that… And she'd always say it was okay as long as they weren't bleeding, their waters hadn't broken – and they wanted to."

"And I'm guessing you want to?" he whispers, and I can practically hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes," I breathe back.

"Is it just to get some sleep, or is it… more?"

I can't lie to him. "You know it's more. But I also…" my voice trails off, I'm embarrassed to admit that I am also, to some extent, using him. "I also really need to sleep. And when I can't take any pills…"

"You should've stopped taking pills and drinking, anyway," he says softly. "I was worried about you. I don't want you to turn into Haymitch or the morphlings."

I'm offended at first, my initial reaction is to scold him for even thinking that I'll do that. Ever. But then I realize that he might be right. I'm not so different from them. I have chosen chemicals to escape from it all, on too many occasions. And the only thing that really differs, the one thing that separates me from Haymitch and the morphlings, is Peeta.

When I don't answer, when I'm just looking at him, he continues: "Promise me you won't."

"I promise."

I had perhaps expected this to be hard and fast, considering we're both hurting, we're both desperate, we are leaving our home and we don't know when we'll be able to return. We know what we'll have to endure in the Capitol. We know our tributes are going to die. And to top it all off, we found out less than 12 hours ago that we have just created the perfect weapon to be used against us.

It seems that despite my reassurances that I'll be okay, he's still taking extra care with me. Only when he's driven me mad with his fingers and his tongue and his lips, when I'm begging him to take me, does he enter me. And he fucks me slowly, lovingly, carefully, yet deeply and thoroughly. In fact, I'd call it making love instead of fucking if it wasn't for the fact that "making love" is a phrase that I, on principle, think belongs in books for old housewives. He's watching my face through it all, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, to inspect my face for any sign of pain or discomfort. When my eyes roll back in my head as my climax washes over me, he allows himself to come as well, spilling himself into me as I moan his name.

After, when I lie on his shoulder, desperately hoping sleep will come to me soon, he whispers in my ear: "How are you doing?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly, after a while.

"Do you feel… Any different?"

I consider his question. I haven't really had much chance to think about our recent discovery today. I fight the urge to find the hidden pregnancy test in my bag, to check if it's still positive. Perhaps it was just a mistake? Perhaps we didn't perform the test correctly? Perhaps I was too drugged to interpret the test result?

But I know I wasn't. And in any case, Peeta hadn't taken anything, and he was the first one to see the test result.

"I think… My breasts feel sore, heavier. Almost like I'm about to have my moon cycle, but not quite. And I was so hungry tonight, I couldn't help myself, all I could think of was food." Which perhaps isn't that unusual for a Seam kid, but still.

He nods. I'm surprised to feel that his right hand is sneaking down to my belly, resting very low there, near the hairline. I barely dare to breathe. "You're…" my voice breaks, I have to try again: "You're looking forward to this, aren't you?" He quickly looks up, guilt clearly visible on his face. "Oh, Peeta…" A tear rolls down his cheek.

"I wish it wasn't like this. I wish it was just us. I wish you'd do this because you want to have a baby with me."

"I know, Peeta, I know." I hold him while he cries in my arms. "I'm sorry I can't do this any better, I'm sorry I can't feel any other way."

"It's not your fault," he whispers in my ear as I fall asleep.

The nightmares are back with a vengeance, for both of us, but I manage to get some sleep at least. When I open my eyes the next morning, and find that I'm on the train, I just want to shut them and never open them again. I know, however, that's not an option.

I get out of bed. I feel funny, somehow… I look at my own reflection in the mirror, and I'm shocked to see how pale and drawn I am. My skin looks nearly translucent. Peeta doesn't look much better.

At the breakfast table, I'm still feeling… strange. My sense of smell seems off, it's as if I experience every single scent much more strongly than before. Haymitch's liquor. The scent Rayn set in the shower, or perhaps more accurately the one he was unable to turn off, not knowing anything about Capitol shower settings, lingering on his skin. Effie's perfume is threatening to suffocate me, I have to find an excuse to sit as far away from her as possible around the table.

But then, breakfast is served. An avox comes in with a large plate of egg and bacon, and as soon as the scent of bacon reaches my nostrils, I can feel my stomach churning desperately. The half glass of orange juice I already had makes a sudden and unexpected reappearance, along with stomach acid. I vomit, unable to stop or even to breathe, until there is nothing left. I just vomited on my plate and also partly on the tablecloth, in front of everyone. I'm absolutely mortified by the mess and the scene, and I stumble up, the chair falling behind me, crashing into the wall with a bang. My eyes wide open in fear, I back away from the table, away from the bacon.

Then another wave of nausea hits me, and my body tries to vomit again, but there is nothing left. I sink down on my knees, hands resting on the floor as I stand on all fours, my stomach trying to expel content that is just not there anyomre. All that comes out is just some gastric acid, burning through my throat. From the corner of my eye I see that everyone is watching me, stunned.

Haymitch is the first to speak. "She didn't drink last night, so she's not hungover. What the fuck, Peeta, have you knocked her up?"

"Shut up, Haymitch," Peeta hisses, crouching next to me.

"Katniss, love, what's going on?" He whispers to me.

"Morning sickness, kid," Haymitch says, as if he's some kind of expert on the field, which I know for a fact that he isn't.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, HAYMITCH!" Peeta yells at him, and Haymitch just rolls his eyes at him.

He doesn't look happy, though.

"I need another drink," he says, then leaves, presumably to continue his party in his room.

"I need to go," I whisper, and even as I try to get up, I vomit again.

I'm being about as discreet as Effie's make-up. There is no way anyone could think this is anything other than a pregnancy – so much for trying to keep this secret.

Back in our compartment, I try going to bed, but I end up crying over the toilet instead. Every sound, every movement, every noise, every smell seems to bring on another bout of vomiting. I've never felt more miserable in my life. Even when there is absolutely nothing left in my stomach, I keep retching, over and over again.

This day is only the beginning of the nightmare, but this time it's a nightmare which isn't just confined to the nights.

There is a doctor on the train, I suppose they couldn't risk their tributes getting sick or dying before they are scheduled to be killed, and Effie hastily summons him. He looks at the pregnancy test, looks at me lying in a pathetic, stinking heap by the toilet and simply says: "Hyperemesis gravidarum."

"What?" I croak.

"Intractable nausea and vomiting during pregnancy." He looks less than sympathetic.

"Morning sickness?" Peeta asks.

"No, this is a more severe form." And then he goes on to suggest fluid replacement therapy, antiemetics, vitamin supplementation. All I can hear him say in my head is: "Capitol drugs, capitol drugs, capitol drugs," and I scream at him through my retching to get out, not to lay his hands on me, that I don't want anything from the Capitol.

"Suit yourself," he sighs with a shrug. "You'll come crawling back to me in a few days."

I'm adamant not to, but pretty soon I'm beyond anything but trying to get even momentary relief from vomiting. I have to lie in a dark room, where there are no sounds and in particular no smells. Any and all sensory input provokes more vomiting. I try to drink some water and eat some dry, tasteless biscuits, but more often than not, everything comes back up.

When we arrive in the Capitol, it's immediately clear that I'm in no shape to wave and smile to the crowd, and I'm smuggled onto the 12th floor after the tributes and Haymitch have left the train.

Peeta actually carries me to bed, and I'm too exhausted to even open my eyes as he lays me down. Then I hear him gasp. I open my eyes slightly, enough to see two tanned hands hand me a red bucket. I know those hands. I know them very well.

"Cinna!" I manage to get out, even trying to smile. Then I look up at him, and what I see, makes me vomit again.

They've made him into an avox.

I scream even as I vomit, because I know this is because of me. This is his punishment for making me that dress last year. I look up at him helplessly as my stomach gives me a few seconds of rest. He is Cinna, but he's not. I know his old name is not to be mentioned anymore, he is not to respond or react to it, because the person that an avox used to be, is gone. Dead. I can see how he seems to have to make an extra effort when he's swallowing, that awkward movement is unfortunately well-known to me after spending all this time in the Capitol. But it's the eyes that are the worst. They must be doing something to them other than just removing their tongues, because Cinna is… changed somehow. He knows, and he remembers his old life, yet they have done something to him. Damaged him beyond repair.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper to him, and I can't help but think that we have both been reduced to these pathetic creatures by Snow – Cinna without a tongue, me with my head in a bucket while a baby I never asked for is growing inside my womb.

Both of our lives are in ruins.