I never dreamed that

I'd lose somebody

Like you

The feel of his lips, the pressure of his tongue, the taste of him, the humid air, the friction of the movements of our mouths and hands, linger on every inch of me through the night. I carry them with me as I sit at the breakfast table in the morning and as I trail my mother and sister at the market the next day. I can still feel it as we gather around the television and wait for the Quarter Quell announcement.

I sit on the couch with Prim's head cradled in my lap, my eyes on the television screen but my mind elsewhere. I hate these mandatory viewings. I hate that we are made to watch the pomp and pageantry of nothing more than murder for sport. I agreed with everything Peeta said in his interview with Caesar. The blood of the innocent lives that have been lost is on all of our hands. Every single person.

When President Snow steps up to the podium and extracts the card for the Quarter Quell I'm still thinking of that blood and of Peeta words and if he is alone in his house watching this. Does his family visit him? I hear my mother's gasp before the president's words filter through my brain. My father's face is slack with shock then tightens in anger.

No exemptions.

No volunteers.

My father dashes through the living room and out of the apartment. The slam of the front door shaking the walls, making the only framed photograph of our family fall from its place on the fireplace mantel. Glass shards scatter across the floor. Prim's head lifts from my lap. Her eyes are wide and frightened.

"What does that mean?" she asks, her voice small, reminding me of when she was a tiny child. She looks to our mother. Tears stream down her face.

"We need to pack. You'll both be expected at the Reaping in One," Mother says, pain evident in her words.

Prim begins to sob. Her shoulders quake and she hiccups through the tears. I hold her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me.

"Don't cry, Little Duck," I sign. "You won't be reaped. I know you won't."

"How do you know?" she asks.

"Because it will be me."

Everything becomes crystal clear. The rebellion's insistence that someone gets close to Peeta, that someone becomes an ally that he can trust and that my age and district were a perfect match. The mission has been to send him back into the arena and for me to go in with him. If he goes in and causes as much disruption as the first time, it will only fan the flames of the fires already burning in several districts. The fire may spread farther and wider this time giving the rebellion the opportunity they need for an all-out war. But he will need to survive and in order to save him, I will need to sacrifice myself.

Prim takes a shuddering breath and throws her arms around me, burying her face in my neck. My mother sits in her chair, staring at the now black television screen, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks wet. I hold Prim close. I'll hold her close until they call my name and I have to walk away from her, from my family. Then, I'll hold Peeta close. I'll keep him safe and when the time comes, I'll die. For him. For the rebellion. I hold on to the hope that he'll hold me like he did Rue. That he'll paint a mockingjay for me. That he'll go on to be the symbol and voice the rebellion so desperately needs him to me. That he'll fight and put an end to the terror that is our lives.

We have to pack quickly. Only an hour after my father arrives back home, a Palace official is at the door to escort us to the train station. A train to District One awaits as does temporary residence near the district center – courtesy of the president, of course – for our family. The Palace official tells us that my father's position as the head of the Department of Energy and our Capitol apartment will be here for us when we return, but that our presence is required for the Reaping.

My father looks haggard with a furious set to his jaw, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He hasn't said a word about where he went. He hasn't said a word at all. He keeps his head down under the official's watchful glare, sharing only brief glances with my mother. They seem to communicate with only their eyes. I see her nod her head once and look away, wiping an errant tear with the back of her hand. No one will look at me.

We throw belongings into our suitcases and are practically shoved out the door, into a car, and onto a train. The ride to the district center of One is short, taking only an hour. It's dark when we arrive, but I can still see the brightly painted buildings, the pristine granite of the fountain and sidewalks, and the smooth wrought-iron benches and lampposts that line the streets. District One is beautiful, crisp, and clean. It's a paradise of gemstones, furs, and silks. It's riches and wealth and finery. It's the place I'll have to pretend is my home. It's the place I'll have to represent when I die. I would give anything to be going into the arena representing the dingy brick buildings, coal dust lined streets, and wooded mountain ranges of Twelve. That's where my soul calls home. If I'm going to die, I want to die as myself. But some things are too much to ask for.

We are escorted from the train through the darkened square and into an empty, but furnished home at the end of a long residential street. The house is painted a sapphire blue so bright I can see its opulent color even at night. It reminds me of his eyes and the way they looked at me in amazement when he realized who I was. For a moment, he looked like the boy I once knew. For a moment, we were children again. For one glorious moment, there was no Hunger Games, no Snow, no victors turned prostitutes, no rebellion, no mission, and no being used. There was only us and the incomprehensible blue of his eyes.

Prim doesn't want to sleep alone. She crawls into my bed soon after the hushed voices of our parents disappear behind the door of the room they have claimed for themselves.

"Promise me you'll fight," she signs, impatient. Her grim mood has been overtaken by resentment. She's angry that I signed up for something not knowing it would mean my life. She's angry that she is supposed to willingly give up her sister for a cause. She's angry at herself for what she perceives as being selfish for wanting me to live. She hates the Games and agrees with the purpose of the rebellion. She wants Snow gone. But, she didn't think it would mean sacrificing my life.

I sigh. "I'll fight," I reply. "I don't know if it will matter though."

"It will matter to me!" She moves to her knees, her hands moving rapidly, passionately. "I know you'll do what you have to do to save him. He's important. I get that. But it doesn't mean that you can just lay down and die. Make allies. Get sponsors. Survive as long as you can. You have to fight."

"Okay, Duck. I will. I promise."

I hold my pinkie up to her and she wraps her pinkie around mine. I tug her down into the bed, wrapping my arms around her and pretending to sleep until I hear her breaths even out. I stare at the walls in this strange room, breathing in the scent of Prim's hair, committing it to memory and hoping against hope that my death in the Games will ensure that this is the first and only Reaping she will have to attend. If my death ensures Peeta's survival and that brings about the change that keeps Prim and all the other children from ever having to fear death in an arena, then it will be worth it.

I keep repeating that to myself as sunlight starts to creep in through the bedroom windows. I don't sleep. I'm still awake, still holding Prim when our mother comes in to wake us, smiling softly at the sight of Prim in my bed. She helps dress us in our nicest summer dresses and pins our hair up in the style of the district. She presses a lingering kiss to the crown of my head as she adds an emerald studded pin in the shape of an arrow to the intricate twist gathered at the base of my skull. My token to take with me into the Games.

When the sun is high in a cloudless, light blue sky, we follow the crowd to the district square where a large stage has been erected outside of a lush, green park. Children's playground equipment, a toy store, a sweet shop, and the partial view of the primary school can be seen behind the large canopy framing the stage. How bizarre that all these positive and happy childhood places are now the backdrop of a death sentence.

Peacekeepers stand guard near the entrance to the holding area in front of the stage where they are verifying identities and separating children by age. I look to my parents, throwing my arms around each of their necks as the throngs of people brush past us. I hold on tightly, mentally cataloging every detail about them: the lines in their faces, the blue of my mother's eyes and the tiny wisps of hair she is unable to pin back from her face, the gray hair around my father's temples, his calloused hands, the gravel in his voice when he speaks, the way he looked in the woods holding a bow. I force myself to let go, to turn away before the dam breaks and I begin sobbing in the middle of this otherwise stoic crowd. I take Prim's hand and start to walk away, hoping they know how much I love them. My father's hand shoots out, gripping my bicep and spinning me around. He pulls me into another fierce hug and his voice is harsh as he whispers in my ear.

"If you can find a bow, grab it, but don't let the Gamemakers know you know how to use it. Remember who you are. Remember what I've taught you. Fight like hell." His voice hitches as he draws in a deep breath. "I love you Katniss. I love you so much. I didn't know they planned to do this, but they will try to rescue you and the boy and anyone else who is a part of the rebellion. Stay alive. Keep him alive. Don't give up. Don't give in."

I pull back and stare into his eyes. He nods once and releases me. I step away, pulling Prim with me as we line up behind the other children filing into the holding area. My mind spins. Rescue? The rebellion plans to rescue us from the arena? So, sacrificing my life was never the plan. The plan was to keep Peeta alive and wait for rescue. How do they plan to infiltrate the arena? A Gamemaker must be in the rebellion. I think of the Head Gamemaker, Plutarch Heavensbee, and the one time I caught a discreet, but knowing look shared between him and my father. It had confused me at the time because I didn't understand how my father would know a Gamemaker, let alone the Head Gamemaker. But what if Heavensbee is a part of the rebellion?

He has to be. It would give him control over the environment of the arena, the Reapings, the training scores, everything. It could all be rigged in our favor. A rigged Games with a rebellion-led rescue would surely start a war. Snow would never stand for that kind of insubordination and an unfinished Games would throw the Capitol into turmoil. But where would they take us once rescued? It would be impossible to hide well-known tributes and possible prior victors within the districts. I wish I had all of the pieces of the puzzle, but even so, I feel almost elated at the prospect of being a part of something so large that it will cause a war, cause possible real, lasting change.

Prim and I reach the front of the line. A peacekeeper directs us to our designated areas. She is near the stage with the other thirteen-year-olds and I am put in with the seventeen-year-olds near the back. The air that surrounds the crowd fizzes with a sort of anxious electricity. As a Career District, One hasn't had to feel the tension and terror that comes with not knowing who will be going into the Games. There is always a male and female chosen beforehand that volunteer for whoever is reaped. They know their fate, they've trained for what's to come and they've accepted it. This year, the crowd is uneasy with the unknown. They're worried, too. What if it is an untrained twelve-year-old? What if it is someone who was never supposed to step foot into an arena? What if…? The tension strings through each child as we stand baking in the mid-summer heat, binding us together.

The District One mentors, Cashmere and Gloss take the stage, smiling for the cameras and the crowd. I don't miss the troubled look they give each other as they take their seats. They are sibling victors and the darlings of the district. They aren't the only living victors in the district, but they are the most beloved and the most requested as mentors. The escort for One saunters onto the stage behind them. He's a ridiculous spectacle of a man, dressed in a bright red velvet suit with a tower of fuchsia curls piled high on his head and tattoos of roses climbing up his neck and ending below his ears. He's proud of his position with a prominent district and he isn't afraid to brag about it. I've seen him before at official functions I've attended with my parents, but I've never paid enough attention to him to remember his name.

After we finish watching the same video they play for every Reaping to remind us of why we have The Hunger Games and the large screen above the stage goes blank, the escort makes a sweeping gesture with his arms and welcomes us all. He tells us that he hopes the odds will be in our favor. He claps enthusiastically and the crowd claps politely in response, but it's nothing like the way this district has reacted in the past. There's no raucous applause, no enthusiasm over the chosen Career Tributes. There's only an unsettling dread. The escort doesn't quite know how to react. He smiles stupidly and continues to clap his hands, holding them out in front of himself, beseeching the crowd to join in his delight.

The crowd shifts. It's clear that everyone just wants to get this over with, so they can breathe a sigh of relief or bury themselves in the sorrow of knowing their child will die. The girl to my left groans, dabbing at a bead of sweat as it slides down the side of her face and complaining about how much time it took to apply her makeup this morning. I stand on my toes to see over the glossy, perfectly done hairdos of the girls in front of me. My eyes rake the crowd until I find Prim. She is craning her neck over her shoulder looking for me as well. I make a face, sticking my tongue out and crossing my eyes. She giggles, covering her mouth. The girls beside her look around trying to figure out what is so funny. I smile and move down from my toes. There. I'll leave remembering her giggle and smile. I'll leave with her remembering how I made her laugh.

The escort finally stops clapping and ambles to the bowl holding all the slips of female names. I swallow, my heart in my throat, my palms sweaty. I stare at the ground and wait. My muscle strung tightly in anticipation.

The escort makes a show of moving his hand around the bowl. "The female tribute from District One is – " he dips his fingers into the bowl, extracting a slip. I inhale, closing my eyes, my fingers clutched into fists at my sides. I'm ready. I can do this. Find a bow. Fight like hell. " – Pearl Acrum."

No.

My eyes fly open and find her wide, fearful eyes in the crowd. No. This isn't supposed to happen. It's supposed to be me.

I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute!

I scream the words in my mind even as I'm frozen in place. The president's words echoing in my mind. No exemptions. No volunteers.

Peacekeepers approach Prim and the crowd of girls around her parts. A sob breaks through the mass of adults behind the holding area. My mother. The Peacekeepers take Prim by the shoulder and lead her to the stage. She walks up the steps on thin, shaky legs. The escort claps and shakes her hand. He speaks of honor and glory for her district. Her nostrils flare and her shoulders shake in an effort to hold back her tears. The escort moves to the second bowl and pulls out a slip, reads the name of a boy. He's older, hulking, and menacing. He's clearly trained. I can't hear anything. I can't look away from Prim, or Pearl as she will be known, as she'll die.

Every cell in my body is shrieking, telling me to run, to pull her from the stage, to take her place. A heavy weight settles into my chest making my lungs burn. I feel like I could crumble and blow away on the hot summer air. I turn and find my father, his face pale, his mouth open in horror and grief, my mother clinging to his side. They had been prepared to send me into the arena. I'm armed with the knowledge of the rebellion's plan and the skills to survive. Prim doesn't have either of those. It's very likely she could end up cannon fodder, another lifeless body at the mouth of the cornucopia taken down in the initial bloodbath.

Prim and the boy are escorted into the Justice Building. My father grabs my hand and pulls me with him towards the building. We still get to say our goodbye. That has always been the custom. We'll have a few minutes to explain, to let her know that if she can stay alive, she will be rescued. I'll make sure of it.

We reach the metal double doors when the Peacekeepers stop us, blocking the path.

"We're Pearl Acrum's family. We've come to say our goodbyes," my father states, his eyes hard.

"New rules for the Quell," one of the Peacekeepers replies. "The tributes are to be put directly on the train."

My knees buckle. I hold tight to my father's hand. My mother wails and sinks to the ground. People around us stop and gawk at the scene. It's undignified in a Career district to put on a display like this. Going into the Games is considered one of the highest honors. You are supposed to save your grief for behind closed doors.

I race from my parents and towards the train, kicking off my shoes and shredding the soles of my feet on the granite stones that line the walkways. I ignore the onlookers, pumping my arms and sprinting as fast as my legs will carry me. I reach the platform as they are stepping out of the car. The escort chatters animatedly. Cashmere and Gloss wave to the mass of people gathered. I push my way towards the front, screaming my sister's false name. She looks up from her feet, tears streaking down her frightened face, her head turning as she tries to find me. Finally, we lock eyes. I see Peacekeepers heading my way. I don't have much time and I have no way of being discreet surrounded by this many people. I throw my hands up and frantically sign, hoping she'll understand.

"Peeta. Ally. He'll keep you alive. I will get you out."

She nods. A Peacekeeper appears blocking my view and pushing me back from the platform, back away from the people. And just like that, she's gone. I stumble away from the crowd leaving red smudges on the pavement from my tattered feet. I have no way to speak to Peeta, no way to ask him to watch out for her, but somehow, I know that he will. The same way that I know that I wouldn't even need to ask. We are intrinsically linked, he and I. I don't understand it, but I feel it deep inside of me. It started with cookies and a mountain lion and a rock and a twisted ankle. And we've never been able to let go. We protect each other, and I know he will protect Prim. And I will get them both out. I have to because I can't bear the thought of losing either of them.

I turn the corner and find my parents clinging to one another. My father leaning forward and talking with the mayor. The mayor shakes his head, his lips set in a firm, grim line. He pats my father on the shoulder in a way that is supposed to be conciliatory but comes across as flippant. My father hangs his head, nodding. The mayor walks away too busy with other matters to deal with grieving parents.

We walk back to the temporary home. The sun is bright. People swarm the streets. There's a festive mood in the air. Shops unshutter their windows and open their doors. They display their Hunger Games themed items. Now, that the tributes have been chosen and they have a chance at another winner with the boy, an undercurrent of excitement runs through the district. They love this. They live and die for it. I'll never understand it. I hate it. I hate them.

As we approach the sapphire blue house, my father notices my missing shoes and bloody feet. We step through the door and he tells me to stay where I am while he goes to find supplies to bandage my cuts. He and my mother disappear down the hall. A yellow hair ribbon, a notebook with a black cover, and a yellow pen engraved with flowers are lying on the chair next to the door. Prim's. I grab the ribbon and stuff it into the pocket of my dress, determined to keep a piece of her close to me.

My lip trembles. My feet burn, the stinging sensation working its way up my calves. There's a noise in the hall like someone dropped a heavy book. I don't remember this house having a library. A murmur of voices. The hair on my arms stands on end. Another heavy thump.

I sprint to the hall, slipping on the marble floor by the front door. My parents lay in a heap on the thick carpet. Three Peacekeepers stand overtop their lifeless bodies. They turn their helmeted heads toward me. Shock slows my reflexes and the cuts on my feet make it hard to run. A Peacekeeper's gloved hand latches onto my wrist. I writhe. I kick, leaving a bloody footprint on his white uniform. Another Peacekeeper approaches. A sharp pain pierces my upper arm. My legs get heavy. The Peacekeeper lets go of my wrist. I fall to the floor. I try to crawl, but my limbs don't want to work. I'm tired. I just need to rest. If I sleep for a moment I can get back up and fight. As the edges of darkness crept through my mind making my eyelids heavy, I hear one of the Peacekeepers speak.

"Tell the president we've secured the family."

Static. Then, a reply. "Copy. Hovercraft will arrive in ten. Bring them to the lab."

President? Lab? I try to fight it, try to will myself to stay awake and figure out what is happening. I stare at the frayed end of the yellow ribbon sticking out of my pocket as darkness consumes me.

A/N: Uh-oh...

The next chapter is Peeta's POV and the 75th Annual Hunger Games. We get to find out who was reaped and if a rescue does take place.

The rest of this story will have timelines that are running parallel to each other, so when we start a new chapter from a new perspective we will be jumping back in time a little bit. I hope that isn't too confusing!

It's about to get bumpy and some of those story tags are going to come into play.

As always, thank you so much for reading, for clicking the kudos, or for leaving a comment. It makes my day!

I hope to post the next chapter by Wednesday.

The lyrics at the beginning are from Wicked Game by Chris Issak