All your acting, your thin disguise

All your perfectly delivered lines

They don't fool me

You've been lonely too long

My dress is too tight. The heels on these shoes are too high. I'm going to break my damn ankles. My little sister knows I can't walk in heels, but she insisted because "you have to look the part!" She's right. My boots would make me stand out in this crowd.

I feel like a fraud. Everyone will see through my act. They'll know I'm not actually one of them. I'll be caught, and I'll be dead. Or, worse, I'll be tortured, made an example of, turned into an Avox, confined to the sewers. My family will be dead. But we all know the risks.

I was born into a family of rebels. My parents have been deeply entrenched in the simmering rebellion since they were children. Now, my sister and I are involved as well. What many people don't know is that the rebellion didn't end during the Dark Days. It's always been there, biding its time, waiting for the right moment. It took seventy-four years for a spark to ignite, to stoke the fire that has been smoldering for decades. That spark is the victor of the 74th Hunger Games: Peeta Mellark.

He probably doesn't remember me. I was no one special; an ordinary Seam girl in an outwardly ordinary Seam family. Peeta and I only shared one moment together, but I have never forgotten him.

The people of Twelve think my family died tragically seven years ago when our Seam house went up in flames. They found bodies in the ashes that people assumed to belong to us. They didn't. It was all part of an elaborate plot to smuggle us out of Twelve and into the Capitol. The family Twelve knew died and in their place, the Acrum Family was born.

My name is Amethyst Acrum. I'm seventeen years old. I'm a rebel spy living in the Capitol. The uprising has begun. I've been assigned to get close to Peeta Mellark, the newest victor and Capitol prostitute. He is the symbol we've been waiting for. And he has no idea who I really am.

My real name is Katniss Everdeen, but only a handful of trustworthy people in the Capitol know that. To everyone else, I'm just another entitled, vapid girl with a glittery, ridiculous name from District One whose father somehow worked his way into President Snow's good graces and became the head of the Department of Energy overseeing the work done in both District Five and District Twelve. That title earned us a ticket out of One, an exemption from the Reaping, and a life in the Capitol. In reality, my father's position was engineered by an underground collection of rebels that reaches all the way into the Presidential Palace.

I had to beg for this opportunity, sending multiple requests through the right channels and waiting anxiously for a reply. They were going to send someone else, someone with more experience than me, someone who is a far better actor. But I couldn't allow that to happen.

As I watched him being reaped, watched him captivate the nation in the tribute parade and interview, watched him ally with the Careers after his district partner died in the bloodbath only to befriend a small girl from Eleven, watched as he desperately tried to save her, watched as he cried, watched as he covered her in flowers and painted a mockingjay on the rock he fashioned as a headstone, watched as he defiantly thrust three fingers in the air, watched as he showed mercy to the boy from Two who cried out for death as the mutts tore at his skin, slitting his throat then closing the boy's eyes with an apology, watched as he won, I knew that if anyone would be the one to save Peeta Mellark, it would be me.

Eventually, word was passed down to my father. Money was transferred to our account. I will buy Peeta's time, making it look like I was paying for his body and I would get close to him. I would earn his trust. We're the same age, from the same district. Whoever is in charge of the rebellion – I've never met them or anyone in the rebellion outside of my parents – thinks it might be the perfect match.

"He'll need an ally when the plan is finally put into motion," my father said with reluctant eyes. He wasn't pleased about the premise of this assignment. And I didn't blame him. I've never even kissed a boy let alone purchased one for sexual favors. I'd have six days. Six days to get to know him before he returned to Twelve for the Reaping, to earn his trust without anyone who listened in on us in the bugged rooms of the palace being the wiser.

And I'm terrified I'm going to mess this up.

The palace's ballroom is too crowded. There's too much food, too much noise, too much of everything. We've been living in the Capitol for five years and I still find myself appalled by the extravagance. It's not something I think I'll ever get used to. I hope I don't have to.

I drift through the throngs of people, spinning around Avoxes holding silver trays with tall champagne flutes or tiny glasses of purple emetic. Victors and other Capitol celebrities mingle throughout the crowd, but I still haven't seen him. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch Abernathy. He looks as uncomfortable in his black tuxedo as I feel in this dress and shoes. His eyes scan the crowd. Searching. Our gazes meet for the briefest moment. My heart stutters. But he continues on with his determined search.

I move through the crowd, grabbing a glass of champagne from a nearby Avox, and trying not to draw too much attention to myself as I follow the path of Haymitch's eyes. They're aimed directly at Peeta. My mouth is suddenly dry. I swallow a mouthful of the champagne. The effervescent bubbles pop against my tongue.

He looks incredibly handsome dressed in a similar tuxedo as Haymitch. He smiles. He throws his head back in laughter. He kisses the knuckles of a hand extended to him. He brushes his fingers across shoulders and along backs. He moves towards me through the crowd, glancing down at the watch around his wrist. I quickly turn my back to him, slipping into the crowd. My heart pounds as he passes. The euphoria of being this close to someone from home is overwhelming.

I'm not worried about being recognized. I look nothing like the girl he knew. My hair is cut short, hanging just below my chin, and is streaked with purple the shade of my namesake. My distinct grey irises have been temporarily dyed purple as well. Besides, my makeup and clothing are every part of the wealthy Capitol citizen. The perfect costume to blend into this ridiculous party. And he thinks I'm dead.

He exits the ballroom through a pair of double doors leading to the gardens. I see Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason exchange a look. She passes through the doors into the gardens, not a minute later. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding and quickly throw back the remaining champagne, leaving the glass on a table as I head for the elevators.

I'm restless. I can't decide where I should be when he enters the room. The clock on the wall mocks me with each passing second.

Three minutes.

My feet ache, the toes pinched in the point of the heels for far too long. I unclasp the dainty buckle at the ankle and toss the shoes across the room. They land at the end of the bed.

Two minutes.

He'll be on time. They're always punctual. That's what I've been told. They can never be early or late. There would be a price to pay for that. I pace. The clock ticks. I contemplate sitting in an odd dandelion chair in the corner.

One minute.

I check my reflection on the wall. Brush my fingers through my hair. Inhale. Exhale. My fingers tremble. I shake my hands at my sides.

Knuckles rap against the door.

And I throw myself onto the end of the bed. I breathe. I straighten my back, roll my shoulders, lift my chin. I put on the mask of indifferent superiority that I have to wear when I'm playing pretend, fooling strangers into thinking I'm an authentic Capitolite. I trace the embroidery on the duvet to keep my fingers from shaking. I tell him to come in.

He steps through the door. His fingers flex at his sides and his eyes quickly dart to every corner of the room but one before they land on me. He smiles easily, one corner of his mouth quirking up slightly higher than the other. I remember that smile from when we were children. Although this one doesn't reach his eyes, they're still a striking blue. But there's a vacancy there that he didn't have when we were young. A dullness aging his eyes beyond his seventeen years.

He's taller than the last time I saw him though not a towering height. He has a stocky frame and a hollowness to his cheeks. I wonder if someone is making sure he's eating enough. He has more money than anyone in Twelve – aside from Haymitch – so hunger shouldn't be an issue for him. The boyish, blonde curls I remember fall in waves now, curling just a little at the ends. Underneath it all, he looks exhausted even though I can tell he is trying to hide it. He does it well. He's good at the role is supposed to play. I wouldn't notice anything amiss with him if I weren't paying close attention.

"Ms. Acrum," he says in a flirtatious voice that cracks slightly at the end. He saunters toward me.

And I panic, instinctually moving further away from him on the bed.

My mind stutters to come up with something – anything – to say. "Oh! Um...it's Amethyst or – or Amy. My friends call me Amy."

I want to slap myself. This is not going at all how I imagined it would. I'm terrible at this. They are never going to let me back in a room with him again.

"Are we friends, Amy," he says, his voice husky and smooth as glass.

My heart stops. Does he know? Does he recognize me? Were we actually even friends? We protected each other once. He saved my life. I threw myself in front of his mother's rage. We hadn't spoken to each other before or since.

I slant my head and study him. He's trying to be provocative and seductive. I remind myself to breathe. I school my features. I clear my throat. I try to throw his tactics back at him. "Perhaps we could be. You can never have enough friends…right?"

His eyes narrow slightly, and he smirks. His jacket falls to the floor along with his belt. My mouth feels like the desert in District Five. I swallow thickly. He loosens his tie, pulling it over his head. His fingers work the buttons on his shirt, taking his time, popping each one purposefully. He pulls his shirttails from the waist of his trousers and lets the shirt slide down his arms to the floor.

His shoulders are broad. The muscles in his arms and chest defined without the bulkiness that most Capitol and Career District men like to show off. I can count the muscles lining his abdomen, although his ribs show through too. I wonder if he still bakes? Does he eat what he makes? He is beautiful. I blink. I remind myself to inhale and exhale. His fingers grasp the button on his trousers.

"Wait!" I say, pushing myself further up on the mattress. I can't let this go any further. I won't pay for his body. I'm not one of them. But he doesn't know that and whoever is listening in on us can't know that either. "Can't – Can't we talk a little first? Get to know each other better…before – before anything else happens?"

He pauses, unsure and his guard slips slightly. A blush works its way up his neck and cheeks. His eyes flit to the ceiling. "Talk?" he asks.

I can't help but follow his gaze upward and I know he knows I'm aware the room is bugged. I nod, trying to regain control of the situation. If I act like a besotted fan maybe no one will question anything. "You're such an interesting victor and from an outlying district, too. I'd love to get to know you better," I say shyly, giving him my best attempt at a playful smile.

He wavers. He's confused and suspicious of my intent. I'm sure I've made a mess of this and they are going to have to assign someone else to him, but since he knows he can't refuse, he agrees.

"Okay," he says, sitting on the end of the bed.

I talk about easy things, inconsequential things, things I know he has no interest in, boring things, safe things, things I hope whoever is listening to us will tune out, so we can have one instant that's just for us. A moment where we can talk about something real.

He relaxes and so do I. He laughs, and it looks like the laugh I remember. His eyes sparkle for just a second. And I ask him.

"What is it like to be a victor?"

He blinks. The sparkle fades. The easy, crooked smile replaces the genuine laugh. "I'm proud to be a victor, to represent District Twelve. His lip trembles and the smile briefly falters. He recovers quickly, quirking his lips back into position. "I'm looking forward to having the honor of mentoring, to show two lucky, young people what a privilege it is to fight for your district and to do it all for the power and glory of the Capitol."

A part of me knew he wouldn't tell me the real answer, but I had to ask anyway. Even though he's spoken with a well-rehearsed smile and practiced unaffected tone, the words must taste bitter coming out of his mouth. They taste bitter to me and I didn't even say them. What a tragic waste of life it is to be in the Hunger Games. Win or lose, a part of you must be left standing on that Reaping stage; the frozen potential of who you might have become.

When I realize it's happening, it's too late to stop it. It rolls through me like a wave, shining in my eyes for a fraction of a second. Pity. His face remains unchanged, but his fingers grip the duvet and I know he's seen it. I look away. I look at the strange dandelion chair in the corner. I wonder who put it here. Who made that choice? My sister would like it. She likes dandelions, likes the color yellow. Although the dandelions on this chair and the dying kind, blowing away in an unfelt breeze.

"Time's almost up," he says, and the seductive inflection is back in his voice. He rises to his knees, leaning in closer. "Is there anything you'd like me to do for you, Amy?"

I can't. I can't do this with him anymore. I can't pretend and I'm on the precipice of doing something insanely stupid and possibly fatal, like cry. "No – No, that's not – " I fling myself off the bed, covering myself in my mask of superiority and indifference like armor. "– I just required conversation from you this evening." I hurry to the end of the bed and pull on the heels. I need the height to make me feel stronger. I'll take anything I can get to help me keep up this façade. My fingers itch to reach out and pull him close, to let him know he's not alone, to thank him for saving my life, to let him know I'm going to do everything I can to save his. "You may go now."

He nods, a strange look clouding his features, a sort of nervousness mixed with perplexity. He climbs off the bed and gathers his clothes from the floor. As he reaches the door, he turns back to look at me. His blue eyes, deep pools of worry, scan my face one last time before he disappears into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.

As much as my feet still ache and as easy as it would be to take a taxi, I decide to walk home. We don't live far from the palace, only a couple of blocks. I need to clear my head, need to think about the last two hours, about what I'm going to say and do so that I can see him again. I have to see him again. I know I let my emotions get the best of me and I'm treading on thin ice.

My little sister's curls bounce on her shoulders as she hurries down the hall of our apartment and into my room. They used to be blonde, like Peeta's but have been dyed a deep, chestnut brown. She pulls the door closed and pounces on my bed, sending the pillows to the floor.

"What was it like? What was he like?" she asks, eyes bright and eager.

"You're too nosey for your own good, Pearl," I reply, pulling off my shoes and unzipping my dress.

She wrinkles her nose at my words and flops back onto the bed with a sigh. She turns to look at me. Her hands move rapidly in front of her forming words the way the Avoxes taught us, the way they and we silently communicate in private when we don't want our conversations overheard. My father is a Capitol official. We know our home is bugged.

"You know I hate it when you call me Pearl," she signs.

I raise my eyebrows and shrug. "So, stop being such a snoop, Duck." I pinch her side and pull my favorite worn t-shirt over my head. It's something a Capitolite wouldn't be caught dead wearing. It's my favorite thing to sleep in.

She stifles a giggle and rises to her knees, her hands moving quickly. "It's not like they don't know you met with him. That you bought him. Are you going to tell me or not, Katniss?"

I sigh. "It was fine. A typical Capitol party."

"You know that's not what I mean," she huffs, giving my arm a little shove.

"It was strange. And he's – he's not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. I thought that maybe – maybe there would be some piece of that boy I knew still inside him somewhere. He's a mess, Prim. I don't know if he'll be ready to do what they'll want him to do or be who they want him to be."

She nods, her hands resting on her thighs for a moment before starting again. "What happened in the room?"

"We talked." She gives me a dubious look. "Just talked. But I was so nervous, and he was so close to me and – and seeing him felt like getting to see home again even if it was just for a few minutes. But it doesn't matter because they're not going to let me see him again."

"Why not?"

"I think I messed up at the end. I couldn't help it. He's so miserable, Duck. It's written all over him. I felt sorry for him and I think he could tell."

Prim moves up the bed, resting her back against the headboard. She chews her lip thoughtfully. "Maybe that's not so bad," she signs. I give her a look, but she continues. "They want him to like you, right? To start to trust you?"

I nod.

"The only way to do that is to show him that you're not like the rest of them. Show him that you care about more than his body and your desires. Show him that you see him as a person."

I mull Prim's words over as I try to go to sleep. She might be right. He views everyone in the Capitol the same way. If I can show him that I'm different without revealing myself to the people listening in, I might earn a small amount of his trust. Whatever the next part of this mission entails, we are going to need to trust each other.

I don't have to worry long before I know how the rebellion thought my night went. A small white envelope appears beneath our front door during breakfast. My father retrieves it, reading the contents, and then passes it to me. My heart thuds as I read it, my piece of toast still poised at my lips.

You're going to have to do better than that, sweetheart.

Tomorrow. 8 PM. Room 4.

I exchange a glance with my father and set the note aflame using one of the lit candles my mother loves. I toss the burning embers into the fireplace.

I hope this helps clear up some of the questions you had about Katniss and why Peeta wouldn't recognize her or even think that Amy could be her.

I plan to try and post twice a week (on Saturday or Sunday and Tuesday or Wednesday).

The next chapter is in Peeta's POV.

Thank you so much again for reading! I hope you liked it!

The quote at the beginning is from the song "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars