Another Way Out

by always-andshewrites

A HG - Catching Fire rewrite. Sequel to "Changing the Game." Katniss and Peeta made it out of the arena together, but little do they know the games are only beginning. Who can they trust as secrets are exposed and identities are revealed? Everlark/Gadge. Told in multiple POV's.

9. Liquid Courage

Authors Note: I apologize for the extended delay. I've read through this chapter at least 15 times, and I'm still not really super happy with it, but I figured I've kept you waiting long enough. So… here it is! Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games; all original sentences and/or phrases belong to Suzanne Collins.

Another Way Out

Chapter 9 – Liquid Courage

[ Haymitch ]

"Let's play a game," Gracie suggests, curling her perfect form into mine and nuzzling her face in the crook of my neck. 'She fits so perfectly in my arms,' I silently beam, basking in her warmth as we lie under the shade of our favorite oak tree behind the school yard. I pull her in closer, inhaling the slightest hint of lavender and something sweet that I do not have a name for.

"A game; why do you want to play a game when we can do this," I tease her. And then out of nowhere, I surprise her by flipping her onto her back.

'God, she tastes so good', I relish her flavor while tracing my tongue along her bottom lip. 'Grr, that full, lush bottom lip,' I internally groan, a bolt of excitement shooting up my—

"Stop it Mitch, I'm serious. I want to play a game," she whines, turning her cheek to greet my lips. I am putty in her hands; within seconds I have conceded, leaning back on the ball of my elbows, giving her my full attention. Damn it, when did I become such a pussy? If only my friends could see me now.

"Okay, fine. What kind of game are we playing today?" I ask her even though I already know the answer.

"I want to play the "What if" game," she states— just as I predicted. Grounded for pulling yet another switcheroo at school, Gracie and her sister invented a new game— the "what if" game to pass the time— satiating their boredom. And ever since, she has been obsessed. No, obsessed would be putting it lightly. She is more like . . . consumed, infatuated and fixated on this imaginary world of make believe.

"Okay, me first. What if we didn't play this game?" I tease her, lightly trailing my fingers along the curve of her waist, which sends her squirming from side to side.

"I've got a good one," she says, wiggling backwards and out of my reach, more determined than ever to play this stupid game. "What if there were no Games?" I tense from her question, looking up to meet her gaze. The fire that meets my eyes doesn't surprise me, but it's what lets me know she's not talking about this silly game, but the 'actual' Games. The Hunger Games. "What kind of life would we have if the Games didn't exist?" she whispers into my ear. Though her voice is so soft it's almost non-existent, it still sends chills down my arms and it has nothing to do with the warmth of her breath.

I squirm in place, visualizing the life we can never have. Jealousy slithers up my veins and I find myself despising this 'fake me' who has the power to grant her this imaginary life. Quickly, I shake my head to eradicate my negative feelings and set my ego aside to placate her.

"Well, as soon as we were of age, I would ask your daddy for his blessing to marry you, then I'd finally make an honest woman out of you," I begin, pretending as if her words haven't affected me. "You'd pop out a few babies. We'd raise them together, teach them the ways of the world and . . . and . . . with each gray hair you sprouted, I would fall more in love with you every single day," I add, though I know it sounds cheesy, I can't help myself. The scowl she gives me is priceless, so I give her a charming smile, followed up with a light peck on the cheek. And just like that, I am redeemed.

"Then, against all my empty threats, those youngens' we had would get married and have their own babies, but they'd still come home every weekend because they love your cookin' so much," I give Gracie a crooked smile before I continue— cause we both know she can't cook to save her life. "Then, we'd grow old, live happily ever after. The end." I recite the phrase my granny used to end all her fairy-stories with; my stomach twisting and turning and flopping with regret— wishing it was a life I could give her.

"I always wanted a little girl— if well, you know," she begins. We've had this conversation before— both of us swearing off kids so long as the Hunger Games exist. "Her name would be Marjorie Amaryllis Abernathy," Gracie pauses, grinning from ear to ear. I think about our imaginary daughter's name, and decide I like it . . . that it has a nice ring to it. "and we'd call her Madge. She would be so beautiful Mitch; she'd have my golden curls and blue eyes, but she'd have your temper, your attitude. She wouldn't take crap from anyone— she would be strong and . . . a fierce to be reckoned with," she finishes, eyes ablaze.

"Of course, any baby of yours would be beautiful," I tell her, trying to conceal my jealousy of this other me. I inhale a deep breath as I feel my anger— my frustration beginning to simmer at not being able to give her this one simple thing.

"Ours," she corrects me, which causes a heat to spread to my cheeks.

"Will you promise me something Mitch?" She asks, rolling onto her side, propping her head up with her hand to meet my eyes.

"Anything," I decree. And I would. I would give her the world if I could. I would gladly give her the moon and the stars and—

"Promise you'll never forget me. That a piece of me will always—"

Suddenly, Gracie and I are no longer under the sanctuary of our oak tree. The image before me transforms, shimmering from the beautiful outdoor scenery to . . . to . . . my kitchen?

"Mitch, WAKE UP!" Gracie shouts at me, grabbing firmly onto my shoulders and shaking me— and hard. "HAYMITCH, WAKE UP, you have to wake up, NOW!"

Nearly twenty-five years later and I am still helpless to refuse her a single thing. My eyes snap open and I quickly furrow my brows, overcome with confusion from the pounding on the other side of my door.

"What the hell, I'm coming," I shout, grunting and running my hand through my matted hair as I get up and stumble my way to the door.

"What the hell do you want?" Irritated that this idiot on the other side of my door has disrupted my peaceful slumber— especially since they are so far and few in between. It's the only place I get to see her, the only place I can see my Gracie, and dammit, they took even that away. So, I feel that my anger is warranted as I shout at them through the door.

I swing the door open, an indiscernible snarl planted on my lips, only to be surprised to see my guest. "Come on! You need to get to the square!" It's the boy's brother— Rye or some shit. What is it with that family and bread names? I think irritably to myself.

"I don't gotta do shit!" I grumble, ready to slam the door in his face and return to the only place I can be with the only girl I've ever loved. Except the door doesn't budge. Rye holds it firmly in place, glowering his eyes into me.

His expression softens until his eyes are pleading with me. "Ripper said to fetch you," my head snaps up at the sound of Ripper's name— he has my full attention. "said you might be able to help Gale out of the mess he's in. It's Katniss and my brother, they're down there too— with the new Head. Got Gale tied to the whipping post."

'The new Head?' This is news to me. I turn around to go back into my house but keep the door open for him to follow me. "Dammit to hell, can't those two ever stay out of trouble? Fine, fine, I'm coming. Let me grab my shoes," I grumble to Rye, even more irritated than I was before. I hurriedly sling my jacket off the coat rack and slide my arms into the sleeves, dunking my hands into each pocket until I feel the cool, hard surface of what I was looking for; my flask. I pull it out and give it a shake for good measure. It's at least halfway full, so I shrug my shoulders and motion with my hand for Rye to lead the way. I slam the door behind me and struggle to keep up with his pace as we trudge through the snow until we reach the outskirts of the square.

"Stop it! You'll kill him!" Sweetheart's voice calls out in the distance, and without even realizing it, I quicken my pace to stop her before she does something stupid. Like get us all killed.

"Katniss, NO!" The boy calls out, and I can just make out through the holes in the crowd that he's jumped in front of her to block this new Head's whip from smacking her face.

I shake my head from side to side to make sure I'm not hallucinating because the picture before me looks so foreign. It is perhaps the first time that I have crossed my fingers and hoped that I'm still just really, really drunk because it's been years and years since any occupant has held the restraints at the whipping post. As the distance shortens between myself and the square, I once again scrunch my face in confusion.

"That's not Cray," I mutter to myself when I see the angry snarl of this new shit head.

I take a swig from my flask, followed by a deep breath. "Liquid Courage, don't fail me now," I mumble under my breath as I push my way through the crowd.

"Hold it!" I assert my voice throughout the square. As I make my way into the clearing, I nearly topple over, almost falling headfirst over someone lying face down on the ground. I do not need to see his face; the man's red hair reveals his identity at first glance. Darius. He is the only person in 12 with that distinctive shade of bright red hair. I want to help him up, but if I have any chance of getting my kids and their friend out of this mess— and alive, I will have to ignore him. Trying to alleviate my guilt, I tell myself he's unconscious anyway.

I go straight to Sweetheart and help her to her feet, frowning when I see the early signs of swelling from the welt on her cheek. Seems like the boy wasn't completely successful in blocking the hit after all.

Okay, how do I play this? I silently surmise, hoping the wheels in my head will start turning.

"Oh, excellent," I fume, deciding to embellish my already arrogant and entitled persona. I lift the girl's chin and turn it from side to side to inspect for additional injuries. Relieved when I see none— well, at least none that are visible yet, I turn to face this new Head. "She's got a photo shoot next week modeling wedding dresses. What am I supposed to tell her stylist?" I challenge him, letting out a pretentious scoff.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don't let him get a word in as I move on to examine the boy's hand. "And— awe hell, this is no good. Boy's s'possed to paint a portrait for display in the Capitol, how the hell's he s'possed to do that if he can't even hold a damn paintbrush!" The lie comes out smoothly— arrogantly, as I intended it to. My words have the desired effect when I meet this pompous shit's eyes with a ferocity I did not know I possessed. I am taken by surprise when I am consumed with the emotions of an overprotective papa bear.

The new Head tenses at my words, recognition succumbing his features. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall in place as it dawns on him exactly who my kids are, and that perhaps, he has bitten off more than he can chew.

'That's the trouble with dogs,' are the snarky words I imagine Gracie would say if she were here.

The man nervously straightens his posture and pushes his shoulders back, gaining his confidence back. "They interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal," he declares, resting the whip at his side. Still, he fidgets in place, not nearly as sure of himself as he was before my entrance.

"I didn't . . ." Gale startles, half in an out of consciousness, struggling to hold his head up; his speech distorted from the blood in his mouth, "confess to . . . shit," he slurs, his head slumping back down in defeat. It must have taken all his energy to perform that one simple action, so it surprises me when he hocks a chunk of blood-tinged spit, landing it imperceptibly close to the Peacekeeper's shoes.

"I don't care if they blew up the blasted Justice Building! Look at her cheek! His hand! Think that will be camera ready in a week?" I counter, circling the man indignantly, as if he is the one on trial here.

"That's not my problem," he says, though his voice trembles with uncertainty.

"No? Well, it's about to be my friend. The first call I make when I get home is the Capitol," I pause for a second and glare into his eyes, "find out who authorized you to mess up my victors' pretty little face— and the boy's hand." I throw my hands up, mocking irritation over a stupid painting.

"He was poaching. What business is it of theirs, anyway?" the man presses, his features growing increasingly more worried by the minute.

"He's her cousin, and she's my fiancé. So, if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us," the boy retorts, pushing Katniss behind him protectively. I turn my head, meeting his eyes for a brief second before I resume glaring at Mr. Whip-Happy, hoping that he received the message. Shut up and let me handle this.

"I believe sir, for a first offense, the required number of lashes has been dispensed, sir. Unless your sentence is death, which we would carry out by firing squad— sir." Another Peacekeeper finally steps in, removing their head gear.

"Is that the standard protocol, then?" I have to bite my tongue to prevent the deep belly laugh that threatens to erupt. When it comes to someone showing up with a wild animal, these fools wouldn't know 'standard protocol' if it bit them in the ass. No, the Peacekeeper's are usually the first ones in line at the Hob; ready and eager to get their hands on some fresh meat.

"Yes sir," the woman Peacekeeper states confidently, and several others nod alongside her.

"Very well. Get your cousin out of here. And if he comes to, remind him that the next time he poaches off the Capitol's land, I will personally assemble that firing squad myself." He wipes his hand along the length of the whip, and from the corner of my eye I see the kids flinch as they get splattered with its remnants of blood. Then Head Shit Face coils it into quick, neat loops before he stalks off, puffing his chest out and sticking his nose in the air without looking back.

"Better get him to your mama," I tell the girl, meeting her eyes for a second before turning my head the other way to make sure the new Head keeps walking in the other direction.

"Mom's not seeing patients yet," Sweetheart says, her head snapping up in a flash to meet my eyes, concern and fear flooding her features.

"Well, let's hope this changes her mind," is all I say.

We manage to obtain a board that we use as a stretcher for Gale, supplied to us by one of the shop keepers. We get him on it— face down of course and carry him to Victor's Village. The boy's father, Bing, sees us from the window of the bakery and rushes over to help us.

"He's the new Head. Name's Romulus Thread. Don't know what happened to Cray," someone in the distance catches us up.

"After twenty lashes, Darius stepped in, saying he'd had enough. Only he didn't do it all smart and official like Purnia did, he grabbed Thread's arm and Thread hit him over the head with the butt of the whip. Nothing good waiting for him," another guy says.

"Doesn't sound like much good for any of us," I retort, stating the obvious just as the flurries of snow pick up their pace.

As we get closer to the Village, I can see Sweetheart's sister peering through the window. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, and then her mouth starts moving, probably giving her mama a heads up that we're headed their way. And then she bolts up in a flash, beating us to the door.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Prim ]

"What time is it Primrose, the kids should have been back by now," Mom asks disquietingly, halting her pacing for a brief second to look at the clock on the wall. We just took a break from yet another hour of cleaning and organizing the Clinic— even though there is not a single spec of dust or dirt in there, she still insists that we get it ready. 'Just in case,' she says, but I think she is just bored. She has so much pent-up energy— probably from having so much free time since dad . . .

From my reading spot in the nook of the window, I look up from the book I am currently obsessed with, "The Right Cut," one of many from a collection of books Cinna sent me. I finish the sentence I am reading and look up, only to be met by mom's worried eyes.

"It's almost dinner time, I'm sure they'll be back soon. Probably just got caught up talking to someone. You know how chatty Peeta is," I try to reassure her, but something doesn't feel right. Mom nods and disappears upstairs, so I open my book back up and resume from where I left off. I don't even make it to the end of the page when I hear voices outside. I widen the curtain and my heart falls into my stomach when I see a group of men walking this way, carrying something large. And then, if it was even possible, my heart feels like it sinks even further in my chest when I see my sister and Peeta lagging behind them.

"MOM!" I scream into the house, wondering where she went so quickly. My book is all but forgotten as it falls from my hand, and I make a beeline straight to the door. "I think someone's hurt . . . looks like they're hauling someone on some kind of board!" I beat mom to the front door and open it to be greeted by Haymitch, Bing, Rye, and a few other miner's I recognize from Gale's crew, sharing the load of carrying someone on the board. The person— a man from what I can tell is lying face down on the board, their back covered in angry, red and purple, oozing, heated stripes.

I am so confused; I have never seen injuries like this before. What could have possibly happened— this is clearly no mining accident. As the men carry the unconscious person past me and into the house, I gasp in shock when I realize who this person is.

"New Head," Haymitch says when he walks past us. Mom nods as if this explains everything. I wait for mom to push them away, for her to tell them she isn't seeing patients yet, but the words never come. Mom does not even mention so much as a single word about not seeing patients yet— or maybe she forgot. It's almost like it's second nature to her when she sees the state Gale is in. She begins dishing orders to everyone, supplying each of us with a specific job. While the men carry Gale upstairs to the clinic, I am tasked with getting the room prepared for him. As quickly as I can, while still maintaining the sterile field, I drape the sterile cloths and place all the utensils, herbs, and oils mom might need on the proper tray. Then, I zip over to the cabinet that contains the medications Mr. Undersee left for us and add it to the tray. What was once an abundant supply has diminished— exceedingly so.

In a flash the Clinic transforms from an empty, quiet room, to something much like how I imagine a war zone to be. The guys transfer Gale from something that looks like it was once a countertop, to the raised bed in the center of the room.

"What do you need from me?" I ask mom, eager to put my newfound skills to use. Mom completes one entire orbit around Gale, doing a quick once over of his injuries. Then she resumes her position on the right side of the table. With just one look, she conveys that we must first clean the blood from his back to further inspect his injuries. As we rinse, wipe, and dab the infected areas, mom looks up for the briefest of seconds, her body tensing when her eye catches on something. No, not something. Someone.

"Did he get your eye?" Mom asks, catching my sister's eye for nearly a millisecond before returning her attention back to Gale's mutilated flesh. I can almost see the fuming rage steaming out of her ears at the thought of someone hurting her daughter. I always thought my sister got her fiery temperament from dad, but the heated look in my mother's eye tells a different story.

"No, it's just swelled shut," Katniss assuages. "Peeta took the brunt of— Peeta!" My sister gasps, remembering that Gale is not the only one injured. "your hand!" she screams, running to Peeta's side and gently lifting his hand to inspect it.

"It's fine, Katniss. It barely even hurts. Just focus on Gale," Peeta admonishes, dismissing his injuries. Mom meets my eyes with an imperceptible nod— a nod that says she is good here, that she will be fine to work alone for a few minutes— but mostly, it's a nod insisting that I take a look at Peeta's hand.

I step back from the table and remove my gloves, tossing them in the waste bin before I head over to the sink to wash my hands. When my hands are dry, I walk over to Peeta and link my arm in his, pulling him along with me. "Come on, let's go across the hall," I tell him.

Katniss goes to stand up, but Peeta locks eyes with her and they seem to be having some kind of non-verbal conversation when she slowly sits back down.

"Get some more snow on your eye Katniss," Mom stipulates. "Primrose will make a fresh batch of snow coat when she gets back."

"I can make it mom, I'm not an invalid," Katniss snaps back, floundering through the cabinets looking for the right combination of herbs.

"Can you save him?" Katniss presses our mother just as Peeta and I exit the room.

"Don't worry, your mama knows what she's doing. Used to be a lot of whippin' before Cray, and even back then, it was your mama we brought them to. Speaking of Cray, where is that ass hat?" Haymitch gruffs, his voice getting further away.

"Prim, I promise, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt," Peeta insists when I close the door behind us.

"I don't want to hear it Peeta. If you are going to be part of our family, then you need to get used to us taking care of you," I smirk, playfully narrowing my eyes at him. The truth is, he should already be used to this by now— mom and I have many a time nursed more than a handful of Peeta's injuries to date.

"Gale's back is much worse than my hand, you shouldn't be wasting—"

"Peeta, hush," I cut him off, pushing him into the examination chair and grabbing his hand to examine it more thoroughly under the light.

I gently turn his hand from side to side, inspecting his jagged skin. As I begin to meticulously— yet gently wiggle each of his digits, ever so slightly, my stomach churns from the raw, bloody image before me, and I do not by any means have a weak stomach when it comes to this kind of thing, so that's saying something. How is he not in any pain? I silently ruminate before meeting his eyes.

"That doesn't hurt?" I finally ask him and then a gasp of shock escapes my lips when I get a closer look at the deep laceration settled within the wedge of his fingers. It's deep, nearly to the bone between his pointer and middle fingers— his pointer finger nearly dangling by a thread. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but still. "I need to stitch this up," I tell him, so focused on the need to quell my excitement at being able to test out some of the new techniques I have been practicing in the books Cinna sent that I am completely oblivious to the fact that he has yet to answer my question. While apples and bananas are great models for practicing sutures, nothing compares to the real thing. And though I haven't asked, it seemed kind of wrong to ask for volunteers.

"Fine, if it'll make you feel better," Peeta finally concedes.

"It will," I retort playfully.

I gather all the supplies I will need before washing my hands and then don a pair of sterile gloves. "This might sting a little, but once the numbing agent takes effect, you shouldn't feel a thing," I tell him, suddenly thankful I set a few vials aside of something called 'Lidocaine,' that Mr. Undersee left us in one of his boxes.

Peeta does not flinch— he doesn't grimace or squirm in place— there is not the slightest hint of pain— or recognition for that matter as I inject the needle into his skin, which gives me cause to worry. "That didn't hurt?" I surmise, meeting his eyes with a raise of my brow; my concern with his injuries growing by the second. Though I do not want to pull mom away from taking care of Gale, I might just have to, after all.

"I told you . . . I uh, couldn't feel anything," Peeta says nonchalantly, refusing to meet my eyes. That is not what he said, and he knows it.

"NO PEETA! You said it 'barely hurts'," I glower at him, throwing his own words back in his face, "and barely hurts and completely numb are two completely different things!" I yell at my soon to be brother, applying him with a scowl of my own.

"It's really just the two fingers I can't feel, I can feel my hand just fine," he says, as if that is supposed to somehow make it better.

I take my time with Peeta's sutures, wanting each stitch in place with impeccable precision. "You know, if I do this flawlessly, it won't even leave a scar," I tell him, feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins. "Well, at least, that's what the book said," I add as an afterthought.

He gives me a smile and says, "Dr. Primrose Everdeen, now that is what I call magic, not those stupid creams in the Cap—" Peeta snaps his mouth shut as if he said something wrong, but I cannot help the grin that stretches across my face. I would love nothing more than to be a doctor one day— to help people. I like taking things apart, seeing how they work and then putting them back together.

I stitch in silence while Peeta assiduously observes me. Once I am satisfied with my work, I reach over for the small tin container of anti-infection salve.

"Voila! All done!" I say upon completion.

"That's it? Wow, that was fast," Peeta admonishes with a smile.

"Now, I know how hardheaded you are, but you really should limit using this hand . . . at least for the next few days. And you will need to apply this salve at least once a day," I tell him, slathering the sticky balm over his stitches to show him, "but twice is better. And in about . . . oh, I think about . . . three weeks, I'll need to remove the stitches," I tell him as I loosely wrap the sterile gauze around his hand. I would feel a lot better if we had some of the Capitol-Grade antibiotics, but we don't, so this will have to do.

Peeta helps me clean up our mess and then we make our way back to the Clinic. We catch the tail end of Katniss arguing with mom from the hallway— something about giving Gale something stronger for the pain.

"You don't know what it's like, you don't know the pain he is in, those herbs will barely knock out a headache!"

"Get her out of here," Mom glances up to Haymitch when Katniss starts getting in her face.

My defiant, obstinate, stubborn sister tries with all her might to fight them off— and I have to give her credit for holding her own— that is, until Peeta picks her up, tosses her over his shoulder as if she weighs nothing and hauls her upstairs. But Katniss is Katniss, and she does not go without a fight.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Effie ]

"When will I get to see you again, my dearest Effijeniah?" I give Proctor my brightest smile, internally cringing when he uses my given name. How many times have I told him how much I absolutely detest that name? Ready to be rid of him, I give him one more chaste kiss through the cracked door.

"Proctor my darling, you know I want nothing more than to spend every moment with you, but you know how taxing the life of an Escort is!" I placate him, fluttering my lashes, "But soon my love, very soon indeed. The sooner you leave, the sooner we will meet again, now, toot-a-loo!" I chirp, waving him goodbye through the small space in the door. He hesitates for a moment, but then he eventually takes a step back, and I seize this opportunity to shut the door. As soon as I hear the clicking sound signaling the door is sealed between us, I twist the lock in place and press my back against the cool surface of the wall, thankful that he's finally gone. Kissing an elephant seal would be more pleasant than the likes of him. Yet, I force myself to endure his repugnance day after endless day.

"Lord, what have I gotten myself into?" I mutter under my breath, shivering from the thought of Proctor's despicable hands groping my body. "Come on Effie, get a grip. You are doing this for your darling children," I remind myself, shaking my head as I retrieve the token from my brazier. It is imperative that I find a new hiding place, as Proctor is growing braver by the day.

I am eager to get into the shower in hopes of eradicating the vulgar remnants of Proctor's scent from my flesh when the ringing of my telephone echoes throughout my apartment.

"Hello?" I speak warily into the receiver of my home telephone, wondering who is calling me at this hour. I am due to meet Cinna and Portia shortly, and perhaps Plutarch, so I highly doubt it is either of them.

"Trinkie!" My eyes light up from the sound of Haymitch's voice.

"Haymitch, is that you?" I ask, although I know the answer.

"The one and only!" He slurs in his fake, inebriated voice. Knowing he would only be calling in times of severe distress, I pinch the coin in my pocket until I feel its vibration, letting me know it is safe for us to talk. But if I remember correctly, I only have five minutes.

"Well, bust my buttons," I recite the code phrase Haymitch and I agreed upon that says the coast is clear.

"Shit's hit the fan here in 12 Trinkie, and I don't wanna hear crap about my language. Gale, you know, Katniss's cousin? Well, he got caught poaching and the new Head— yeah, we got a new Head Peacekeeper too," Haymitch speaks so fast, getting straight to the point as he tries to relay all his information. "Well, they made an example of him and tied him to the whipping post. After thirty or so lashes, Katniss and Peeta stumbled into the square—"

"Oh, my heavens! Are they okay?" I exclaim, my heart racing in my chest at the thought of my darling Peeta— at both of my precious children in harms way.

"Yeah, they're okay for the most part. Katniss got in the way of the new Head's whip, and Peeta—"

"Got in the way of Katniss," I finish the words for Haymitch.

"Yeah. The girl's got some swelling on her cheek— but . . . uh, it's the boy's hand that's got me worried. I'm not sure when he'll be able to use it again. He's playing it off like he's fine, but I think that's more for the girl's sake. But their injuries are nothing compared to Gale's. I'm not even sure how he's still breathing after thirty lashes—"

"Haymitch, you must get them to a doctor! At once!" I demand, my heart pounding against my rib cage.

"Effie, doctor's around here ain't like in the Capitol. Trust me when I say they are in the best hands 12 has to offer."

"And who exactly is that?" I ask suspiciously.

Haymitch chuckles, "Katniss's mom and sister. Best healer's in 12."

"Wait a minute— Katniss's sister? Isn't the poor dear like . . . twelve years old?"

"Let me just say this Trinkie . . . if it was my life on the line, I'd trust little Prim before I trusted any of your Capitol doctor's. But that's not why I'm calling. I just— well—"

"How many times must I tell you? Lemonade is my preferred beverage!" I blurt the words out as the coin vibrates in my hand, signaling the end of its service.

"Yeah, yeah. It's just uh . . . too bad they're not in the Capitol. A quick trip to Medical and they'd be healed, just like that," Haymitch continues cryptically, snapping his fingers. "I reckon the boy won't be able to paint that portrait you were asking for— since he can't use his hand and all."

My face scrunches in confusion . . . What portrait is he referring to? I ask myself, but then I realize what he means. My brain processes Haymitch's words and flashes begin to inundate my mind— images of Peeta's immaculate works of art, memories of him telling me that he uses art as a way to release his mind from the dreadful nightmares. Without the use of his hand, how will he—

"Well, yes. But the advantages of being a Victor do not always extend once returning to the district's," I reply, an idea spurring to mind. "On second thought, perhaps I shall send you guys a care package. Do not ask me why I am choosing to offer you kindness, just . . . expect a package tomorrow. I shall send Peeta some new paints— for when he regains function of his hand. What is his favorite color again?" I ask, knowing full well what it is. "Oh yes, red. I shall send him a special shade of red paint. You know . . . the three of you are quite fortunate to have myself as your Escort. Other Escorts would not treat you so kindly," I finish, hoping he understands the message.

"Alright Trinkie, take care."

"As I hope you will take care of our Victor's," I say, on the off chance someone is listening in. And then I add, "Oh, and Haymitch, I would appreciate it if the next time you called wasting my time, you would at least grant me the respect of not calling half wasted."

"Haha, okay Trinkie. Next time I'll call all the way wasted," he says with a chuckle, and then I hear a snort, followed by a click, signaling the end of the call.

I scurry around my house, gathering everything I will need and quickly shower, removing all traces of Proctor from my skin. I apply a thin layer of makeup and choose a platinum blonde wig with highlights of lime green for this specific outing. Once I am ready, I grab my purse, giving my apartment a once over and head out.

Since it is on the way, I make a quick stop to the Escorts Bay to retrieve the supplies I will need. In preparation of retrieving enough medication, I brought some empty containers in my purse. Instead of taking entire bottles and tubes, I squeeze a little from each of the ones I brought along. I can only manage to fill one small tube of the cream that will instantly heal a small injury, but it will have to suffice. Had I taken more, someone would have noticed. Since the cream is a deep red color, I conceal it inside the empty tube of red paint. Antibiotics and pain medication are a plenty around here, so I grab an assortment, filling up several empty whiskey bottles. I have never once sent Haymitch alcohol, so surely, he will know it is not actually alcohol. Satisfied— enough, I make my way to the train station, before heading to the place in which I will meet Cinna and Portia.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Haymitch ]

"I'll get it," I yell up the stairs to Lilly when the doorbell rings. She doesn't tell me not to, so I make my way back to the foyer. I hadn't been back for two seconds when the doorbell rang— I'm surprised I didn't bump into whoever this is on my way back over here. After Sweetheart had her hissy fit and the boy carried her upstairs, I made an excuse to run home . . . saying that I needed to change my clothes when in actuality, I had to make a phone call . . . For some reason, I felt it was vital that Trinkie know what was going on. And I hoped there was something she could do— something she could send to help the kids out. Mainly for the boy. Or . . . at least, that is what I keep telling myself.

Just before I left, I overheard Lilly telling Prim that she's not sure how Gale will manage now that the morphling is almost gone. That they only have a few more doses left and then they will have to use something called "Oxy-metafentanyl," though they do not know anything about its effectiveness. If that doesn't work, then they will just hope and pray that sleep syrup will be enough to knock him out through the worst of the pain.

Apparently, one of Ric's "ducks" from his "row" before leaving was donating the remainder of May's medication, which included several vials of an assortment of pain medications: ranging from the top shelf morphling, all the way to your basic acetaminophen. They don't know what they would have done without the morphling Ric left— except that it's almost gone. I don't mention my talk with Effie, not wanting to get anyone's hopes up if the Escort can't come through.

I make my way to the front door and barely twist the knob when the wind slams it open from the blizzard. I frown when I see the person I least expect, looking back at me: Raven. Shivering and frazzled and covered in snow.

"Uh, Raven . . . uh . . . hey man, what's up?" I ask, surprised to see him here and motion for him to come in so I can close the door. He rubs his hands together to warm up, his teeth chattering from the cold. It takes him a few seconds before his lips thaw enough to speak. But the frigid temperatures do nothing to freeze the fear in his eyes.

"Haymitch, it's Madge, she needs help. She was attacked and she's in bad shape. Amy's at home with her, but we were afraid to move her— she, she sent me here to tell you— she said you'd know what to do."

If the fact that he slipped up and called his wife by her actual name wasn't my first clue that something was wrong, I know it by the time I hear Madge's name. Madge. The daughter Gracie always wanted, the daughter she will never have. Was she trying to tell me something in my dream? Was she telling me to protect 'this' Madge? 'Madge', her niece?

I pull Raven up the stairs, taking them two at a time until we get into the room where Lilly is. I give her a look that conveys the seriousness of the matter, and with a wave of her hand she immediately clears the room. I shut the door behind the last person— one of Gale's mining buddies and then Raven gives us a condensed version of how he came upon Madge.

Lilly listens intently as Raven speaks, her expression remaining blank the entire time. "So, I carried Madge home and Am— Poppy said to come here . . . that you could help her," Raven finishes.

Lilly closes her eyes for a moment, letting the wheels in her head do their thing. When her eyes open, she gives us detailed instructions on how to best transport Madge back here, as she cannot leave Gale. Raven, the baker, along with his other son, Rye and myself find the board we hauled Gale over here with and give it a good wipe down. Once it's clean, we pile all the blankets in the house on top of it before heading out into the blizzard.

The kids are nowhere in sight when we make our grand exit, which is probably a good thing. They would insist on coming along, and they need to stay put. We do not need additional injuries to add to Lilly and Prim's already heaping pile.

The three of us head out, braving the storm as we fight against the torrential winds. Luck is not on our side tonight— I can only hope and pray— or better yet, cross my fingers that we make it back in one piece. It can't be any later than eight o'clock, yet it is pitch black outside and there is not a single star in the sky to light our way.

We make use of the unoccupied board, using it as a shield to facilitate in diminishing the blistering winds until we reach the mayor's house. Thankfully, it isn't all that far from Victor's Village. If the winds weren't so loud, I would have grilled Raven about what happened to Madge. How did she get attacked, who attacked her? How did he find her? How severe are her injuries? Is she going to be okay?

We finally make it to the mayor's house and my heart sinks in my chest when we enter the mansion to see Madge's prone body displayed atop the dining room table. Poppy is standing over her with a bowl of warm water, using a washcloth to clean the dried blood from her face. Judging from the bloody washcloth, I can only assume she has put Madge in a fresh nightgown. And is she . . . singing? Humming?

"How is she?" I ask in an instant, rushing to Madge's side to inspect her injuries. My heart sinks even lower in my chest when I take sight of her beaten and swollen face.

"Shh, Kizzie's sleeping, and I don't want to wake her," Poppy says in a soft voice, but her powerful scowl is anything but quiet. At first, I feel irritated that she seems more concerned about her daughter's restful slumber, but it slowly dissipates when I remember that Madge has grown close with her daughter— from the piano lessons. "I think she's okay. She's been unconscious the whole time Raven was gone, but she's been mumbling to herself. And she was moving her arms and legs, so I don't think anything is broken." The relief I feel knowing Madge is— might be okay takes me by surprise. I didn't realize I cared about her this much— or at all.

The guys place the board next to Madge and together, we gently slide her onto it and cocoon the blankets all around her. Poppy gives us two sheets that we use as a sort of rope. We tie the first one, making a knot at the apex of her breastbone, and the other one just above her knees, hoping it will be enough to secure her in place.

"I'm going to help them get her back, babe; don't worry if I'm not back soon— it's a nightmare out there."

"You should stay until first light— too dangerous to head back in the dark," I tell him, and the other guys share a nod of agreement. I can tell they are not excited for his company, but they must know we need his help. I think back on all my encounters with Raven and realize he's really not so bad a guy after all.

"Thank you Haymitch," Poppy says gratefully before she leans over to kiss Raven.

Once they say their goodbyes, we brace ourselves for the frigid temperatures and the blinding snow ahead of us. I place my hands firmly at the top end of the board, just above Madge's head, while Raven supports the end with her feet. Bing and Rye walk on either side of Madge, holding the board while attempting to secure the blankets from the thieving winds.

After what feels like hours of traipsing through the snow, we finally make it back to Katniss's house. Once inside, we rush Madge upstairs, where Lilly instructs us to place her in the room across the hall. My kids— who are back in the action realize it's Madge on the board and they frantically try to stay by her side.

"Thanks guys, I've got it from here," Prim says, shooing us out of the room. Once the kids realize Prim will not budge, the boy drags Katniss to the room where Gale is and asks Lilly what they can do to help. Lilly shows them how to clean Gale's wounds and then rushes across the hall to help Prim with Madge.

"Oh my! For the love of—" Through the door I can hear Lilly shudder, imagining her wincing as she takes in the urgency of Madge's injuries.

"Primrose, can you get Haymitch and Raven?" I hear through the door. A second later Prim opens the door and waves us in, slamming the door behind us and sealing us in.

Dumbfounded, I watch as Lilly and Prim work simultaneously, cleaning Madge's wounds more thoroughly, remarking on Poppy's work. She asks questions and Raven answers them— to the best of his ability. I cringe as Raven explains in great detail what he came across in the tunnels. The more he speaks, the more he describes what he saw, the more it feels like I'm burning from the inside out. I have not felt this much anger, this much hatred and rage . . . haven't felt the desire to take the life of another person since . . .

"You know . . . we've gotta take care of him," I blurt the words aloud without even realizing what I've said. But I can't take them back now. And . . . I don't think I want to.

"What do you—" Bing questions, but he must understand the second the words leave his lips. A sick fuck like that cannot be allowed to live, and especially not after discovering the tunnels.

"As soon as the sun comes up— we'll need daylight to find our way," Ravens says, taking me by surprise.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Katniss ]

"Who are you to decide how much pain he can take; I know you've got something stronger! So, give it to him!" Standing up and pressing my palms into the table, I inch closer to my mother, pleading with her.

"Katniss, there isn't much left. I gave him a small dose earlier. The herbs will help with inflammation, and—"

"Well, he needs more!" I cut her off, not in control of my rising vocal cords. My shoulders tense and I turn to the side when I hear the pitiful moans creeping out of my best friend in his unconscious state.

The calm, soothing way my mother speaks only serves to amplify my anger, so I inch even closer to her, our noses almost touching now. But she doesn't look up— she does not acknowledge my presence and I know she knows I'm almost in her face. "You don't know what it's like, you don't know the pain he is in, those herbs will barely knock out a headache!"

"Haymitch, get her out of here," Mom says calmly, never looking up once as she continues to mend Gale's broken flesh.

"Come on Katniss, let's go see if we can help with—" Peeta begins, walking over to me.

"Get your hands off of me," I snap, pushing him away. He doesn't budge. Instead, he picks me up, lifting my body and throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of flour as he carries me out of the room.

"PUT ME DOWN, LET ME GO, GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!" I scream, erratically jerking my legs and pounding my fists into Peeta's back as he carries me up the steps.

"Katniss, stop it, you're acting like a spoiled brat. Your mom knows what she's doing, now stop it so she can focus on fixing him," he fumes, gasping and out of breath by the time we reach the door to my room. Using his back to open the door, he takes me inside, and then uses his foot to kick the door shut. Never releasing his hold on me, he sets me down and holds my arms until he feels my body relax.

"Are you done?" He fumes, his voice terse. I'm too stubborn for my own good, so I just sit there. Staring.

'Katniss, listen to me. Your mom knows what she's doing. We need to let her do it. All you're doing is preventing her from helping him,' Peeta says, switching forms of communication. I look away, too ashamed to meet his eyes and see a flash of red.

"Peeta!" I gasp, grabbing his bandaged hand. The once fresh white bandages draped around his hand— his dominant hand— which is now stained with blood; his blood.

"Wh-what happened? Why- why is your hand bandaged, and why— did I . . . did I do that?" I ask him, suddenly feeling extremely ashamed of my behavior.

"No Katniss, no. It happened at the— in the square," he says, his voice soft and reassuring.

"B-but— I— I made it bleed again!" I wail. While I was acting like my usual stubborn and selfish self, Peeta was silently in pain. I am such a horrible person.

"Peeta, I'm so sorry," I tell him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Hey, hey now. It's okay. I'm okay. Come on, let's get washed up." He suggests, pulling me off the bed. It's weird, being in here, and I think that it might be the first time that I've actually used thisbathroom. Since I'm always at Peeta's I never have any use for it; that is, until now.

I scan the cabinets, locating a first aid kit and grab a roll of bandages out of it so that I can redress Peeta's bandages.

"I feel so disgusting," I say, almost afraid to look at my reflection.

"Why don't you take a shower? A shower always makes you feel better," Peeta suggests. It does sound like a good idea, but I don't want to be away from him, not even for a second. Not after what happened to Gale.

"Only if you join me," my words seem to tumble out of their own accord, which causes both Peeta's and my own cheeks to burn crimson. But I don't regret them.

'Please, I just . . . I just need to be close to you, I just need you to hold me.' I meet his eyes, begging him not to refuse this one request. 'Please,' I repeat.

"I'll start the water," he says with a grin, moving to the side of the tub and leaning over to turn the water on. I do not think there is anything in the world that feels better than Peeta's naked body flush against mine. There is nothing sexual about our nakedness, but everything intimate. Sensual. He pulls my body against his; skin against skin. My back is pressed against his bare chest while the hot water rains down on us, the pressure from the jets pounding against my flesh soothing to my achy muscles.

Peeta reaches over me for the bottle of shampoo. He flips it over and squeezes a dime-sized amount in his palm, rubbing it together and then surprises me, when instead of bringing his hands up to his own head, he begins brings them up to mine. Once he builds up enough soap in my hair, he begins pushing the pad of his fingers into my scalp.

"Oooh, that feels so good," I moan out in pleasure. And then . . . a jolt of electricity rushes to my core when I think about Peeta's naked body only inches from mine. I turn around to face Peeta and rinse the soap from my hair. This is not our first time being naked in the shower, but never facing towards each other.

The water runs down my head, rinsing my hair clean and I lean my head back, so I don't get soap in my eyes. Then I close the distance between us, linking my arms around his neck. He tenses up at first, shocked by our closeness, and then I slowly feel his body relax as he encircles his arms around my waist.

I lean up on my toes and press my lips to his. I feel his hands on my back, rubbing— caressing, digging the pads of his thumbs into my achy muscles. I mimic his actions because it feels so good. We are kissing, panting, breathing heavily— and I want more. I feel his length against my leg— growing and growing— becoming aroused. I want to reach down and touch it, to feel what it feels like in my hands—

"Katniss," Peeta says, jolting me back to reality.

"Mmm hmm?" I pant.

"We— should um . . . we should get out. The water's cold," he says. I don't want to get out, I want to stay right here with him. I want to touch him— feel him, but I know he's right. We have a house full of people— and the water is definitely not as hot as it once was.

"Okay," is all I can think to say.

We get out, dry off, and get into some dry clothes. I help Peeta put a fresh set of bandages on his hand, since they got wet in the shower.

"Don't tell Prim I got it wet, okay?" He asks me with that crooked grin of his. I lift an eyebrow at his request, asking him to elaborate. It's funny— we have always had an uncanny ability to communicate without words— even before we could hear the other in our heads.

"She just um . . . she said not to get it wet," is all he offers.

Once we're dry and clothed, I run a hairbrush through my knotted hair— completely forgetting about the conditioner Effie sent. Peeta pulls the covers down for me and I crawl over to the far side of the bed. And then I feel guilty.

I am warm and clean while my best friend writhes in agony just a few doors away from me.

"I should check on Gale," I breathe, nearly exhausted and feeling more than defeated. Instead of rejuvenating my energy, the shower seems to have done the opposite and I can barely hold my eyelids open.

"I'll check on him, why don't you crawl into bed, and I'll meet you in there?"

"Okay," I concede, lacking the energy to protest.

Peeta is back in less than a minute. "Hazelle just got here, and she is sitting with him. He's still out. Your mom gave him what was left of the morphling," his words make me cringe.

"I was horrible to my mom, I should go and apologize," I say, fidgeting, and crawling over the covers to get up. Peeta pushes me back into the bed and turns the covers down. Then he slides in next to me and pulls the covers up to our waist.

"She understands Katniss. Just . . . lay with me for a little bit. I just— I just need to hold you," he implores, the insistency in his eyes too intense for me to refuse— not that I even want to. Not that I have the energy to. Because . . . it's what I need too.

I think I nod off a few times, because my body does that jerking thing it does when I'm falling asleep. It's like . . . it feels like I'm falling from the sky, and then there's an instant jolt— like . . . I'm trying to catch myself, or something. But it feels like only minutes have passed when Prim bursts through the door, a confused . . . yet accusatory expression clouding her features.

"Katniss, where is Madge?"

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Peeta ]

"Katniss, where is Madge?" I jump, startled wide awake when Prim bursts through the room with an unsettling amount of fear in her eyes. My sudden movement, combined with Prim's shouting wakes Katniss. Her body tenses beneath me as she tries to figure out where she is. Then she lifts her head from my chest, untangles her legs from mine, and I can tell that, like me, she is consumed with guilt for not even being aware of Madge's absence. With the frenzy of events from the last few hours, it didn't even occur to me to question where she went after she disappeared into the crowd when we found Gale at the whipping post. Or better yet, why she has yet to return.

"I— I don't know, I was— she was—" Katniss falters, and then we both spring out of bed and begin searching the house. We slam doors and peer into vacant rooms. Katniss drops to her knees and crawls on the floor, looking under the bed as if Madge were merely teasing us with a game of Hide and Seek.

"Where could she have gone? She had to of seen that it was Gale— where do you think she went?" Katniss asks me, panic prevalent in her eyes— adrenaline coursing through her veins, now wide awake.

'Peeta, do you think—'

"Katniss don't think like that," I urge her, hoping to keep her mind from spiraling out of control. "I'm sure she's okay, she probably just . . . well, I don't know, but I'm sure she's fine. Madge is a big girl; she can take care of herself. I'm sure she'll be here soon," my words are unconvincing, even to myself. It is the middle of the night. Snow has been coming down in buckets— and even I know that Madge would not be sitting idly at home while Gale was over here suffering. No, Madge would be camped out over here, sitting next to Gale and holding his hand. SHE would be the one throwing temper tantrums over increasing his pain medication instead of Katniss.

As if on cue, our question is answered when the door swings open. With it, my dad, Rye, Haymitch, and Raven enter, covered in snow, their faces red from the blistering winds. And for some reason, I know that the torturous expressions succumbing their features has nothing to do with the cold, but with the unconscious person that occupies the board that once held Gale.

As Katniss removes layer upon layer of blankets from the heaping pile, I catch sight of the familiar curly blonde hair, the petite frame— the black and white shoes that I've only ever seen on one person's feet, it still doesn't seem to register that the lifeless girl lying before me is Madge.

"Is that?!" Katniss cries, her hysteria increasing by the second. "Madge, oh my god, Madge! What happened?" Katniss presses the first pair of eyes she gets to— my dad.

"She . . . she was attacked, it was Cray. Raven found her in the tunnels under the mayor's house—"

"What, huh! Cray? What tunnels? What was she doing under the mayor's house?" I ask, following them upstairs.

"Put her on the table in the apothecary— Primrose has a space cleared for her," Lilly instructs from across the hall. We try to stay with Madge, but Prim pushes us back.

"Go on, I can't think straight with all of you hovering of me," Prim snaps, slamming the door in our faces.

With Katniss's hand gripped firmly in mine, I scurry us across the hall, coming face to face with Lilly. "What can we do?" I ask Lilly, wanting and needing to be useful; but more than anything, yearning to calm my mind with busy work.

Lilly gives us instructions on how to continue cleaning and dressing Gale's wounds, demonstrating once before she disappears cross the hall and into the apothecary with Prim.

Ever since Madge's parents died in the explosion— ever since Madge moved to the Seam, I knew her bond with Hazelle ran deep. It wasn't until this moment that I realized exactly how profound that bond actually was. If an onlooker was observing Hazelle as she paced back and forth, witnessed the worry lines that clouded her features, the unshed tears that threatened to spill over, I am certain they could only assume that Hazelle was Madge's biological mother. And now, Hazelle has two children knocking on death's door. Gale with his slashes, and now Madge— unconscious, having been beaten to a pulp. Hazelle frantically, anxiously paces back and forth across the hallway, pausing at Gale's door, and then Madge's. She repeats this process over and over, again and again as she mumbles to herself.

"Madge . . . where's Madge," Gale mumbles through his drug induced slumber— if you can actually call it that. Katniss turns her head to meet my eyes, not sure what to say. From across the hall Hazelle must have heard her son's voice, and in an instant she is at his side.

"Hey there sweet boy, you're going to be okay, you hear me?" Hazelle whispers her words softly to Gale while she runs her fingers through his hair. And then her eyes blaze with a kind of fire as she leans down next to his ear. "You will be okay Gale Matthew Hawthorne, or so help me—" She hisses next to him and my muscles tense from the intensity of her demand. I cock my head to the side in confusion, wondering why she would speak to him this way, when all of this— everything, is completely out of his control. But then it hits me— she pressing him to get better; to stay alive.

"Madge— where's— Madge?" Are the words that leave Gale's lips.

'Should we tell him anything?' Katniss asks me.

'No— no reason to worry him until we know more. And he probably wouldn't remember anyway,' I respond.

"It's okay Gale, you're going to be okay," I tell him, which seems to appease him for the moment, or maybe it's the drugs kicking in. Either way, we wait patiently, keeping watch over Gale while we wait for Prim and Lilly to return with some news.

"How is Posie?" I look over to Hazelle, hoping to fill the awkward silence, remembering that just a few days ago Madge mentioned she hadn't been feeling well.

Hazelle's head snaps up to meet my eyes and it takes her a moment to focus on my words. "Oh, yes, um . . . she's uh . . . not that great," she admits, shaking her head. "She's been running a fever over the last few days. It's just . . . I've been afraid to take her out in the cold," she forces a guilty smile to her lips.

"That's probably the best thing you can do for her right now, it's too dangerous for anyone to be out in that mess, least of all a little girl with a raging fever," I tell Hazelle in hopes of alleviating her guilt. The truth is, Hazelle should never feel guilty. She is a great mom.

"I'll get some medicine for you to take back with you," Katniss offers with a smile that Hazelle returns, but it doesn't meet her eyes.

"Hazelle," I say her name before I know what to say and she looks up to meet my eyes.

"I um . . . I just . . . you're a good mom. Never doubt that, okay?" She smiles, and this time, it almost meets her eyes.

"Thank you Peeta, that was very sweet of you," she says, closing the distance between us and wrapping her arms around me.

'Why do you think Madge went into the tunnels? And . . . what and where exactly are these "tunnels"?' I ask Katniss silently when Hazelle resumes her door to door wanting to disturb Gale.

'That's what I'd like to know,' Katniss replies.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Gale ]

"Do I ever tell you how amazing you are? How much I love you?" It's Catnip's voice, but it sounds like it's in a tunnel.

"It is implied . . . Always. You don't have to say anything, I know. I always know."

"You are so brave and selfless, you are amazing, and . . . I think the most caring person I've ever met. Well, except for maybe Prim. You're always taking care of me . . . protecting me . . . and the people I love—"

"Yeah, a lot of good I did today," this time it's Peeta's voice I hear.

"You did help him; those last few lashings could have killed him."

I try to open my eyes but they're too heavy. When I try to move my arms, they are paralyzed in place . . . as if a hundred pound leaden pipes are holding them down. I try to move my lips . . . try to make a sound but they're frozen in place.

What happened to me? What's wrong with me? Why am I lying here . . . and why does everything hurt? As if the universe is intent on answering my question, flashes begin to inundate my mind.

The turkey. The fat, juicy turkey I was so excited to take home flashes before me. Me. Excited to see the look on Madge's face I brought the turkey home. It was only a few nights ago when she shared a memory with me . . . about her and her dad and a feast including a turkey. It was only after hearing that memory that I became intent of searching and capturing the wild bird. For her.

And then . . and then what? Then, there is a man's face, dressed in the uniform for Head Peacekeepers, only this man wasn't Cray. He takes my bag, looks inside, and then surprises me with the butt of his whip, knocking me to the ground. The next thing I knew I was tied up in the square— the shit head demanding that I confess to poaching. I refused to give him the satisfaction, tempted to ask him if he'd rather see my family starve to death. Each refusal on my part earned me a lash. Still, I don't regret a single thing. I would gladly accept ten-thousand slashes against my back to see my sisters cheeks, plump and full; instead of the latter of hollow and sunken in.

'Well, I guess they cared after all,' I think to myself, referring to Peeta's comment about them not caring about my poaching.

And then Madge's face flashes before me— her eyes filled with water. Her unshed tears threatening to spill over when she found me in the square. I begged her to get out of there, I didn't want her to see me like that. Didn't want her to see me cry— if it came down to that. But then— I saw the hungry . . . no, the ravenous look in her eye— it's the mischievous look that succumb her features when she gets an idea. And Madge is stubborn— once she gets an idea in her head, once she sets her mind to something, there is no swaying her decision. But . . . where did she go? What was her idea? What kind of trouble did she get herself into?

"Madge, where's Madge?" I manage to croak the words out.

"It's okay Gale, you 're going to be okay," are the last words I hear from Peeta before whatever drugs they gave me pulls me under again.

We're all in the square. Me, Ma, Vick, Rory, and Posie. It's one of the first nights of the Games featuring my best friend and the baker's son. I was so focused on the screen that my reaction time was halted. I felt like a failure when my sister began screaming hysterically, thrashing her arms violently as she witnessed one of the career's taking out another tribute. I was no longer angry at myself but with the Capitol— I get that the Games are mandatory, but they shouldn't make the little one's watch. But then I notice our group of six is missing one person. Madge.

My concern for her safety disappears the moment I see her marching our way with Darius on her heels. What the hell is she doing?

"What the hell?" I say under my breath.

"Sorry man, mayor's daughter and all. I'm just following orders," Darius shrugs, which only serves to confuse me. What the hell has Madge done? I thought she was cool. I guess I was wrong.

I look over to Ma, hatred in my eyes from what Madge has done. But Ma looks happy. Relieved. She passes Posie to Madge, who willingly clings her arms around Madge's neck.

"You go on with Miss Madge and we will come and pick you up on our way home," Ma tells Posie. I'm still confused.

"They really shouldn't make the little one's watch, if it was up to me, but it's not . . . sooo—" Darius says, his words trailing off as he escorts Madge and my sister. Away from the Square.

Posie quickly calms down. Madge lowers her to the ground, extending her hand to Posie with a soft smile on her face. "Posie, I need the help of a smart, brave and strong four-year-old girl, do you know anyone willing to help?"

"I'm four-years-old, and I'm the smartest, and the bravest," Posie words get softer as they get further and further away.

That was the first time Madge surprised me. It was the first time I was truly thankful for being wrong about her. I remember the fire in her eyes that night— that Posie was being forced to watch the atrocious events on the screen. And she decided to take matters into her own hands.

The image fades to black. My pain returns. I can hear myself, feel myself moaning from the pain. Then, I feel a sharp prick in my arm and slowly, the pain fades once again.

It is no longer the dead of winter, no longer those first days of the Games. It's still warm, but not scorching hot. It's weird because I remember this day perfectly, but instead sitting next to Madge, it's as if I am an onlooker to this day. The sun is shining, and a light breeze ruffles the leaves on the trees. Beautiful brown, orange, red and golden leaves— some of them fluttering with the wind as they whoosh from side to side until they reach the ground.

"I think fall is my favorite time of year. I know that when the leaves begin changing colors, it means they're dying, but it's just so beautiful," Madge says, her eyes sparkling in sheer wonderment. We're in the meadow, sitting on a blanket spread on the ground. Madge opens a picnic basket and plucks out a bowl of fruit. My mouth instantly waters from the sight of the sliced apples. And then, my stomach does something when her teeth sink into the juicy, red strawberry.

My stomach— it twists, and it turns, it flips inside out and upside down, but not from hunger. No, it is something else, something much stronger. Desire.

"Come on Gale, don't be so stubborn. You fed me the other day, now it's my turn to feed you," Madge insists. The right corner of my mouth curves up and I feel warmth spread to my cheeks. This beautiful girl knows me well.

"Fine," I say, plucking one of the sliced apples from the bowl and devouring it with just one bite. We sit under the sun, eating the fruit mostly in silence. I learned a lot about Madge that day. She loves fall, the beautiful colors it offers, but mostly, she loves that winter is approaching. She called the air, "crispy".

"Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something in my teeth?" She asks me. Why am I looking at her like this?

'You know why Gale,' I say to myself.

"No, your teeth are perfect. Madge Undersee. You just . . . you surprised me, that's all," I say.

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"I don't know . . . you're just . . . you are nothing like I thought. And I— I'm glad I was wrong about you."

"And what exactly did you think about me? I mean . . . I have an idea, but—"

"I just . . . you were the mayor's daughter. Privileged. Entitled. Arrogant. Stuck up. You had it easy. Everything handed to you on a silver platter. Warm food served to you every day."

"Did you also know I wipe my ass with only golden toilet paper?" She jokes with me.

"See, there you go . . . surprising me again."

"And so, Gale Hawthorne, how is it that you see me now? Now that you actually know me?"

"You're kind. You're sweet. My sister adores you. You're compassionate. You are definitely not entitled, spoiled, stuck up, or any of the other words I had once thought about you. You care about people. And . . . your insides match your outsides . . . beautiful,"

"Y-you think I'm b-beautiful?" She studders, licking her lips. I reach over and run my fingers along a stray piece of her hair that has fallen from her ponytail. "No one has—"

I shut her up, leaning in and planting my lips against hers.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Madge ]

"Mama? Is that you?" I ask the beautiful mom/non my mom as she releases me from her embrace.

"No sweetie, I'm not your mama. Your mama was my sister, my twin. My name is Grace," she says, her eyes pooling with tears as she beams proudly, looking me up and down. Her confession grants her a befuddled scowl from me because how can she be Grace when Grace was my mom?

But then a voice inside my head says— 'No it wasn't Madge, remember, they switched places?'

"My name is Grace; your mama was . . . she was Maysilee. I— I took her place in the Quell— did she . . . did she never tell you?" Her voice shakes uneasily, and her brow shifts up with piqued interest. In record time her face transforms from questionable to pure excitement— as if she was never worried to begin with. "Oh, my goodness, you are so beautiful! You are more beautiful than I ever could have imagined you!"

'What does that mean?' I wonder, but then I am distracted by something else she said. Her previous words resonate in my mind. I took her place in the Quell.

I decide there is no harm in asking what she meant. "Can I ask you— why did you take my mother's place in the Quell— not that I'm complaining . . . had you not done that then I probably wouldn't have been born," I ask, shifting my eyes to my feet as I think of how weak and frail my poor mother's existence was as an adult. No doubt, traumatized by the loss of her sister. And then I wonder if the world would be a better place if I never existed.

"My sister— Maysilee, she was so soft and delicate— an injured animal would bring her to tears, she would not have lasted five minutes in the arena. I was stronger— tougher; more confident with myself than she— I . . . I knew— I couldn't— I . . . she was the eldest of us, only by three minutes, but from the time we were big enough to walk, it was I who took on the role of "big sister." I was so fiercely protective of May. With that being said, as the bigger sister, it was my responsibility to protect her, to keep her safe. I had to make sure she lived." Grace explains to me, pausing for a second.

"That year the Gamemakers tricked us. They like to do that, you know? It was not announced when they read the card, but only moments before drawing the cards at the Reaping ceremony. It stated that no volunteers would be permitted that year— that the children whose names were drawn was set in stone. But . . . well, we were identical twins. The moment I heard my sister's name being called; I knew what I had to do. There was no question about it, no hesitation on my part. Of course, she tried to stop me, but I froze her in one place with just one look. And no one was the wiser— well, no one other than Haymitch— and perhaps Lilly. Even our parents were fooled at first," my Aunt Grace's recollection of past events sounds so familiar. Wasn't that the reason Katniss volunteered for Prim? Because she knew she was stronger— that the odds were more in her favor than Prim's?

"What are we doing here? Am I dead?" I ask her, wondering if this is even real. Wondering how it is that I am speaking to a ghost. Or maybe . . . maybe I am hallucinating and have gone completely mad.

"No honey, you're not dead. Your body is unconscious right now; that man beat you up bad. I— I'm just here to keep you company for a bit while the healer does her job."

'The healer? What?'

"What happened?" I ask, feeling all out of sorts.

"You don't remember?" Her face scrunches up in confusion as she cocks it at an angle.

"I remember . . ." I begin, searching my most recent memories for— "GALE!" His name escapes my mouth in a gasp as the recent events inundate my mind. Images of Gale tied to the whipping post in the center of the Square, everyone sending me those strange, eerie looks. The slashes on his back send a shiver up my spine, and then I recall my desire to seek out some of my mother's morphling. I knew from the moment I saw the angry marks adorning his back that the only thing strong enough to alleviate his pain would be the all-powerful, intense, Capitol-grade morphling. That's why I went into the tunnels, to search for some morphling, and then . . . and then what?

"It was Cray, he tried to— oh God! Did he— did he?!" I exclaim, mortified, no, terrified he succeeded in his mission to . . . what was it he said? Try me out for size?

"No— no honey, he didn't," Grace rushes to my side, placing her hand gently on top of mine. "The mayor's husband rescued you just in the nick of time."

"You mean . . . Kizzie's dad, Raven? What was he doing down there?"

"Doesn't matter," Grace states matter of factly. "All that matters is that you're safe now. You're safe and you're going to be okay. Listen Madge, there are some things I need to tell you. Come," she says, pulling me along with her. "let's have a seat," she says, and then suddenly, there is a bench that seems to just instantaneously appear before my eyes. We are in what looks like the meadow, the sun is high in the sky and brightly shining its rays down on us. It looks like 12, but there is over a foot of snow in 12 right now, and this place is . . . warm. A tree stands on either side of us, their beautiful leaves providing shade from the scorching sun.

"Hand me the orange vial," I jump when I hear a voice that sounds so much like Lilly's resonating from— from . . . everywhere?

"Is she going to be okay?" Another voice cries out just like the first, except sounding further away. "Madge, if you can hear me . . . sweetie, it's Hazelle. I love you sweetheart, and I need you to fight. Fight and pull through this because we need you. I need you, and so does Gale. And Posie, and the other boys too," Hazelle sniffles, choking through her tears. I want to reach out and wrap my arms around her. I want to tell her that I love her too— and that I will fight.

"Was that—" I ask my aunt.

"You are beginning to wake," she nods, her lips straightening into a firm line. "I fear our time is growing short, so you must listen closely, okay Madge?"

I nod for her to continue. "First and foremost, I am so, so sorry for all the pain life has bestowed upon you, and it also pains me to say that the worst is yet to come. You will come to a fork in the road, and you will have to choose which path to take. The choice will not be an easy one . . . but you must remember that the simplest path is not always the easiest one. Please Madge, please follow your heart— your heart will always guide you . . . it will never lead you astray. There will be much anguish, strife, and turbulence ahead . . . but do not fret, you will make it out on the other side. That much is certain."

My brows knit together, my forehead wrinkling with confusion as I listen to her words. As I try to absorb them. "I just cannot believe she named you Madge!" The real Grace giggles like a little girl, her previous statement . . . or was it a warning . . . it almost sounded like a prophecy . . . disappearing into the wind.

"What? I don't understand. Please, you have to tell me more," I press her.

"You will. In time. Madge, will you please pass a message along to Mitch?"

"Who?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"Oh, I mean . . . Haymitch. Will you tell him that Grace said—" she leans in and whispers her words into my ear, just as there is a flash of light.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Katniss ]

Peeta and I take turns sleeping throughout the night. Like our time in the arena, one of us is always awake and alert to keep watch in case something were to happen to either of our friends. In case either mom or Prim were to need our help. When I open my eyes, it takes me a second or two to figure out where I am, and I can see the sun rising in the sky— an indiscernible cramp in my neck from using my arm as a pillow. Peeta is in the rocker next to Madge, his head cocked to the side— having fallen asleep.

Waiting for the cramp in my neck to subside, I bide my time by sitting here and staring at Peeta's sleeping form for a moment, thankful that he is asleep so I can admire his beautiful features, basking in how peaceful he looks right now without his eyes staring back to scrutinize me. It's not that he isn't beautiful when he's awake, because he is. It's that . . . when he is awake and alert, stress and worry seem to overpower his features, adding years to his features.

I jump, startled out of my trance by the slamming of the front door, which in turn startles Peeta awake, causing the worry lines around his eyes to return.

"I come bearing gifts!" Haymitch shouts as his feet pound against the stairs. He seems to forget— or maybe he just doesn't care that there are two people healing from some rather serious injuries, in addition to those of us who have had no sleep as a result of those injuries. And then a frown appears on my face when his shoes slap the steps again, wondering why mom hasn't given him her "No shoes in the house" speech.

Then again, she may have. But he's Haymitch, and he follows no one's rules.

"What are you talking about, and why are you so loud?" I snap at him, peering through narrowed eyes when he enters the room.

"This is for you," Haymitch says, handing me a small box.

"Uh, thanks," I reply with a raised brow.

"It's from Effie," he says, and I nod— the gifts making more since now. Though I am not sure why Effie is sending us presents, or what it is that we could possibly need. Once all of the gifts are with their recipients, Haymitch slams his large brown paper bag on the table and pulls out four large glass bottles of spirits, each one a different color. I frown, not noticing anything familiar about any of the colors of liquid in the containers. Then he fumbles through one of the cabinets and pulls out a few cups. He twists the lid open to the bottle containing the mirky, orange color and begins filling each cup about halfway full.

I narrow my eyes at him, but he just laughs it off. "Don't be like that sweetheart, after the day we've had, I think we deserve a little morning refreshment. Go on," he says, shoving one in my hand and raising his glass.

Haymitch shares a look with mom, and then mom zips to the other side of the room, fumbling through one of her bags to retrieve a syringe. She dips the syringe into the cup, pulls the plunger back to fill it up and injects it into Madge's arm.

'Why are they injecting her with alcohol?' I ask Peeta.

'Who knows? If Effie's sent him all that alcohol, then he's probably—" Peeta's eyes widen, as if he's just realized something. He eagerly reaches for his cup and brings it closer to his face, sniffing it.

'What?'

'Katniss, Effie would never send Haymitch alcohol!' Peeta says, taking another whiff of the liquid in his cup.

'It's not alcohol Katniss, it's antibiotics!' Peeta's excitement vibrates in my head.

'What? How do you know?'

'After my surgery, they made me drink this for three days after we left the Capitol. I could never forget how disgusting it tasted, and this is definitely that!'

I grip firmly onto my cup and bring it up to my nose to smell it, expecting to inhale the putrid stench of spirits, but Peeta is right. It's definitely not alcohol. When I turn my head, I see my mother storing the other bottles in the cabinet where she keeps the medication. She has labeled them, "Spirits #1 through #4. Then she fills another syringe up and rushes across the hall to Gale's room, where I can only assume she has injected him with whatever other delicacy Effie has sent.

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Haymitch ]

"Mitch?" My head snaps up when I hear the beautiful, harmonic trill of Gracie's voice. We are on the roof of the training center in the Capitol. With less than twenty-four hours before they throw us into the arena, we try to sneak in every spare second we can. It's not often that we are able to find time to be together. Gracie has nestled her way into my arms as we lie on the ground next to the garden. We still have an hour before our stylists are expecting us, and I'll be damned if I let them take us away any sooner. If these are my last peaceful moments with her, I'm gonna savor it.

"Mmm hmmm?" I ask her, not wanting this moment to end.

"When we get in there . . . Just . . . don't forget . . . I mean . . . just . . . just remember who the real enemy is," her voice is so soft, so quiet that I question what she just said.

I press my chin into my chest, meeting her eyes and my brows furrow into a frown. "What, huh—" I say; surely she didn't just— My confusion quickly dissipates as my brain processes her words. Then my eyes widen at her treasonous statement. But she's right. She has never spoken words truer than these. We are not the enemy to each other; not the tributes from 2, or 4, or 8 . . . none of us. It is the Capitol who is our enemy.

"Don't . . . forget—" I am startled awake when I hear mumbling and my eyes snap open to see Madge fidgeting restlessly in her sleep. Lilly gave her a dose of the antibiotics a few hours ago, and she has been tapering her off the morphling over the last twenty-four hours, and she suspected Madge would be waking soon.

"Madge . . . sweetie, can you hear me? It's Haymitch. You're okay," I am up and at her side, clasping her hand in mine. We don't know what all Madge will remember from the attack, if anything. Lilly said she could wake up traumatized from the— or well, she could wake up perfectly fine. Only time will tell, we just have to wait for her to wake up. I have been on pins and needs, the anticipation killing me. It's taken every bit of willpower I posses not to drink myself into oblivion.

Bing, Raven and I made our way into the tunnels to "take care" of Cray, only to find him bound by the straps Raven tied him with and . . . surprisingly . . . already dead. I had never felt more relief than I did at that moment. As much as I wanted to kill him with my bare hands just the night before— well . . . there is a big difference in being angry enough to want someone dead, and taking their life with your own hands.

"Don't . . . forget," Madge repeats the words that I heard only a few moments ago in my dreams.

"Don't forget what?" I press, squeezing her hand tighter. But I have this daunting feeling that I already know what Madge's next words will be. Or maybe Gracie is standing here, watching over Madge, guiding us together.

"The . . . enemy—" I cock my head to the side, releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Did she just say what I think she said? I haven't heard those words since—

"Don't forget who the enemy is—" Madge words are clear as day— unmistakable as her eyelids begin to flutter— and then, in an instant they've snapped open. Her bright blue eyes are wide and clear, staring into mine, almost as if she is shocked.

"Haymitch?" Madge's words come out in a hushed whisper from lack of use. She appears confused as she looks around the room and tries to sit up.

"You're okay sweetie, you're in the apothecary at Katniss's house."

She tries to speak again, but her mouth is dry, so I run to the sink and fill a cup with water before handing it to her. She avidly gulps the water down and then meets my eyes— with an urgent need.

"She said . . . she asked me to tell you something," Madge begins, and I wonder what she's talking about, and who is this she? Before she even speaks, I know who she means. "She said to tell you . . . she said, 'don't forget who the real enemy is' . . . does that . . . does that make any sense to you?"

My eyes widen, heat prickles throughout my body while I'm sure all the color drains from my face.

"It must have been a dream but it felt so real," she dismisses herself, shaking her head.

"What— who— where—" I stammer, not sure what to ask, or which words to put in front of which words.

"W-what happened?" Madge asks, seeming to forget about her message to me.

"LILLY!" I call out, but it's Prim who rushes through the door. When she sees that Madge is awake and sitting up, she is at her side in no time, shining a flashlight into her eyes doing what I can only surmise is some kind of exam. Suddenly, Madge becomes hysterical, patting her chest, and looking down into the neck of her shirt.

"MY PEN! Where is my pen?"

[ 0 – 0 – 0 ]

[ Katniss ]

"Shit, I feel like I've been hit by a truck," Gale moans, lifting his head up. This is the first time his eyes have been open, which surprises me. I didn't expect him to be awake and alert so soon, but mom said those Capitol drugs can work wonders.

"What do you remember?" I ask him. He wrinkles his forehead and closes his eyes. He is still weak, so he lies his head back down.

"Did we get a new Head Peacekeeper?"

"Afraid so," Peeta tells him, sneaking into the room. He picks me up from the chair I am in and steals my seat, and then plops me onto his lap. "Name's Thread. Romulus Thread," Peeta offers.

"He knocked me out with his whip. Hit me on the head or something, and the next thing I knew, I was tied up in the square. He kept going on about poaching and this is what happens to anyone who has the audacity to steal from the Capitol. And then— Darius— oh shit! Darius! And then . . . Katniss?" Gale says my name, lifting his head back up to meet my eyes. I already know what he intends to ask before the words leave his lips.

"Where is Madge?"

I tense up, freezing in place, not sure what to tell him. Or how much to tell him.

"She's okay Gale. She's just in the other room," Peeta jumps in, coming to my rescue.

"Why is she in the other room? What did she do? Is she okay?" Gale demands, seeming to sense that something is wrong.

"You don't need to worry about her right now, just focus on getting better," Peeta says.

Gale grits his teeth, whether it's from the pain or he's angry, I can't tell. But then he glares at me, and I can almost see the steam shooting from his ears.

"What. Happened." His words are sharp as he growls through gritted teeth.

Peeta slides our chair over so that we're facing Gale— moving so that Gale doesn't need to strain his neck to see us. "She was attacked Gale, but—"

"She was WHAT!?" Gale shouts, his body stiffening. "SHIT, FUCK, OWW," he screams from the pain.

"Gale, you've got to be still or you're going to reopen your wounds," Peeta says.

"Tell me," Gale demands.

"After she saw you in the Square, she knew you'd need something stronger for the pain . . . so, you know Madge . . . stubborn, determined . . ." The more I speak, explaining what I know, the more Gale tenses; his jaw tightens, his eyes grow dark with anger, with rage, his face ripening like a tomato.

"I swear to god, I will kill that son of a bitch," Gale hisses through clenched teeth. Peeta and I share a look, but are too afraid to say the words aloud, in case someone is listening in.

"Listen Gale, the important thing is that she's safe. She's alive. And she's right across the hall. Raven got to her before anything happened. And— and she's awake. She just woke up a little while ago. I'm sure as soon as Prim is done examining her, they will let her see you." Peeta tries to appease Gale, and I see his muscles slowly relax.

There is a knock on the door, and it opens before I get the chance to ask who it is, or to tell them to come in. It's Madge, looking no worse for the wear. Her face is covered in deep purple and blue marks, her right eye is almost swollen shut. She offers me a smile, and I can't help but think that she's still beautiful.

Peeta lifts me off his lap and then stands up to offer Madge our seat. Madge accepts the chair and then gasps when she sees the state of Gale's back.

"Oh my gosh! Gale!" She cries, taking his hand into hers.

"S'not as bad as it looks," Gale says, supplying her with a grin of his own. He turns his head to meet her eyes and I can literally see his muscled going rigid.

"I will kill that son of a bitch!" Gale growls, his eyes filling with tears.

"S'not as bad as it looks," Madge offers him the same response that he had given her. "Doesn't hurt, so that's good."

'Come on Katniss, let's give them some privacy,' Peeta says, taking my hand and guiding us out of the room.

One more author's note: I hope you enjoyed; I know it's a monster of a chapter! I'd love it if you would drop me a line to let me know what you thought. All questions, comments, advice, and anything in-between are greatly appreciated and welcome!

Follow me on Tumlr, I'm always-andshewrites. (Yes, I changed my name, sorry about that)

From Chapter 10 comes from a new character - "It means . . . we're on your side. We're here to help you."

I don't want to say too much because I don't want to spoil the surprise, but it's not who you think it is : )