Authors Notes:

Hi everyone! Thanks for sticking around for another chapter. I appreciate the two of you following this story. ;)

Chapter two is also going to be slow, because, again, there's not much to be changed about the Reaping. I did my best to skim this part, as we've all read versions of it a thousand times. I hope I've made it brief without being too bare. Next couple chapters will definitely have original scenes. Ok, on to the good stuff

Disclaimer: No, I don't own the Hunger Games. I wish.

KATNISS

I kick an empty can down the dirt path. That extra loaf. It's a favor, one that I wanted to refuse. Vehemently. As much as I wanted to leave empty-handed, I know Prim is looking forward to our post-Reaping meal. I can never deny Prim anything. Even if it costs my pride. I hate owing people.

Worse, it's a debt to Peeta. I already own him for saving both my life and Prim's. But there's always some more small things, like the bread. He's too nice. That's the worst part. He doesn't want me to repay him. As if I could.

And the comments. I'm well aware Peeta's not remotely interested, but his innuendos always get to me. I've gotten good at hiding the irritation. No need for him to see it now.

Peeta's one of the most sought after guys in our grade, and even I can see why. With soft, curly blond hair, a six-foot well-muscled frame, and clear blue eyes, he's handsome. Even more than that, he's charismatic. He has a way with words; it's almost unnerving how easily he can convince people. It doesn't matter what. Peeta can charm and lie his way through anything. It annoys me that he's easily the most well-liked in my grade.

I don't why he still bothers to talk to me. Because he clearly enjoys our exchanges. And he can be… nice. Like actually nice. I can count on one hand the merchants who treat me like a person. And somehow, Peeta's one of them. Most see me as Seam filth. Those who treat me like dirt are simple. I can manage that. The merchants and a good portion of Peacekeepers will always look down on me. Others, like most in the Seam, are warded off by my attitude. Which is kind of the point.

I enter our little house and go to wash up. The water in the tub is freezing, but soothing against my sore muscles. Yesterday was a long hunt.

Baths are somewhat rare in District 12, but there's no time to savor it. I rise from the water, cloudy from the dirt that was scraped off my body.

When I see the dress laid on my bed, the bath's lingering chill fades a bit. It's a beautiful dress. One of my mother's. She's very careful with the things from her old life, and this is something extremely special to her. While for years I've been distant with her, this gives me a lump in my throat.

After my father died, my mother was comatose. All she did was sit in her chair and stare, never once attempting to care for her starving children. I took over, managing what little money we were given, the dried meat my father had just made. But it didn't last. We were gaunt, with cracked lips and protruding ribs. Living off of boiled mint, we were going to die. But I was reminded of my father's knowledge. I pulled our family from the jaws of starvation, with none of my mother's help.

Since then, I've learned to never trust my mother, never rely on her. I've pushed her away, even when she emerged from the depths of depression. She's tried to reconnect with me, but I never budge. So why is it that the dress makes me choke up? I don't have an answer.

The fabric slides smoothly over my shoulders. I'm marveling at its softness, the color. A rich blue with no stains to be seen, no layer of coal dust. I can hear her coming to the doorway.

"You look beautiful." Her eyes reflect the light, and I realize she has tears. "Can I do your hair?" Her voice is soft, tentative. There's still a lump in my throat, so I just nod.

There's a basic vanity that my father made years ago. I sit in the chair, watching my mother in the small, cracked mirror. I'm allowing her to care for me, something I haven't done in a long time. My eyes meet hers in the mirror, but Prim comes rushing in.

"Oh, Katniss, you look so pretty!" She's wearing my first Reaping outfit, a skirt and blouse. It's too big for her, but my mother pinned most of it in place. Except for the edge of the blouse in the back, left untucked.

"But not as cute as you little duck. Better tuck your tail in."

"Quack." She's grinning, making me smile in return. I have her turn around and tuck in the back. Prim is the light in my life. She's what moved me to venture past the fence, to push through my fear of the woods. I've done everything in my power to keep her safe, cared for, protected. But the Reaping is something I cannot control. Yes, I've tried to lower her odds, never letting her take the Tesserae, but ultimately it's out of my hands. And I hate that. But I can't let it show.

My mother's light fingers are still in my hair, and I can see the elaborate braid in the mirror. Her hands slip from my head. It's a beautiful, winding path from the crown of my head down over my shoulder. I turn around. She's holding back tears.

"You look stunning."

This doesn't make me feel a pain in my chest. No, it warms me. My voice is soft and tentative. "Thank you."

I don't want this moment to end. For the first time in a long time, I'm comfortable with my mother. Prim is smiling, with no thought of the coming event. I wish I could protect her, but there's no way to keep her from the Capitol's grasp. No matter how much I want to stay in this moment, it has to go on.

"It's time."

PEETA

We make our way towards the square with everyone dressed in their nicest. It's a sea of blue, grey, and white. A nice change from dirty browns and coal stained blacks of the usual. By now, it's routine; I take my place with the rest of the 16-year-old boys. All of us are fenced in together, and it resembles our pigpen a bit too closely for me.

The mayor starts his yearly speech on the collapse of North America, the rise of Panem, and the rebellious Dark Days. By now I could probably recite it by memory. Instead, I focus on the rest of the stage. Two glass balls, one of them holding slips of my name. Three chairs, with only one occupied. The mayor is at the microphone, and I'm guessing Haymitch Abernathy is drunk somewhere. The middle chair is taken by Effie, District 12's escort. She's wearing a light green suit, pink hair, and a ghost-white face. There's no way that skin tone can be natural. Her lipstick matches her hair, which I assume is supposed to be fashionable. How the Capitol can see that as trendy, I have no clue.

I turn my attention back to the mayor, who's reciting the rules of the Hunger Games. As if anyone needs them by now. It's simple. One male and one female, aged 12 to 18, from each of the twelve districts are sent into an arena to fight to the death. It's supposed to be a reminder to the districts. Don't revolt. You can see what we do to your children. The power we have. It works. It also serves as entertainment for the Capitol citizens. A brutal, horrifying show.

The mayor is about to read the District 12's Victors when Haymitch staggers on stage. He's the only living Victor out of the two we've ever had. And a complete drunk. He drops into his chair, and I'm surprised he doesn't fall on the floor. "We gotta-draw… allem tributes." And then goes silent. Effie is cringing away from him, looking disgusted. When the mayor starts to introduce her, she jumps up, clearly happy to be distanced from Haymitch.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor." She goes on about what an honor it is to be this District's escort (yeah right), and I only tune back in when she exclaims, "Ladies First!" Her heels are the only sound in the entire square, everyone holding a breath until she's at the microphone. Her painted mouth opens and reads out the name.

"Primrose Everdeen."

And my heart stops.

No.

One time, I was helping my father in the bakery and picked up the burning hot pan. I thought it had cooled, but the searing pain instantly said otherwise. I was frozen for seconds, hours, years. It felt like an eternity where I could feel the sharp, excruciating burn, but my hands wouldn't let go. I was frozen in shock until my fingers finally unclenched, and let the pan drop.

This is what it feels like. I'm in shock, I can't move. And the pain hurts.

It's Prim, sweet Prim, who admires my cakes, accepts my treats with a secret smile, looks at Katniss like she's the moon itself.

She walks slowly down the aisle, eyes searching. Her face is pale, etched with terror. Her hands clenched, down by her sides.

And then I see Katniss. Her olive skin is drained of blood, horror plain on her face. She's frozen, like me. Until she's not.

"PRIM!" The scream shatters the silence, and Katniss lunges forward. "Prim!" She's struggling, Peacekeepers holding her back. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

I knew she'd volunteer. She loves Prim more than her own life. And she just proved it.

KATNISS

Prim is screaming my name, but Gale sweeps her up. "Up you go, Catnip." His voice is steady, but I can see the fight in his eyes. To keep calm.

There's a bit of confusion on the stage. Volunteering is unheard of in District 12. Other districts, like One, Two, and Four, have volunteers regularly. It's an honor for them. They have protocol to determine which of the volunteers gets to go. Effie is thrown off by my declaration. "Lovely! But, um, I think we have to introduce the reaping winner, then ask for volunteers…" She drifts off, unsure.

"What does it matter?" The mayor's voice is gruff. He's looking at me, probably recognizes my face. I know his daughter, and sell both of them wild strawberries. "What does it matter? Let her go up."

Everything slows down.

I walk up to the stage.

Effie does her best to make this tragedy fun and exciting. Going on about how I want the glory. I can barely hear her. The blood is rushing in my ears.

Glory. Glory. I just sacrificed myself, and she sees it as a show. But the people of Twelve disagree. They refuse to clap, a small defiance to the Capitol. It seems small, but is a dangerous dissent. They do not agree. They do not agree with the Capitol's show, their deadly entertainment.

And they salute. A kiss to three fingers, then raised upward. It's a send-off. A final goodbye.

The tears start to form, but Haymitch, for once, has good timing. He hangs off my shoulders, and I can smell the alcohol. "I like this one… she's got… Spunk!" He then promptly falls off the stage.

I compose myself, using the few moments with the cameras trained on his unconscious form. Control my face, blink back the tears. I clench my fists and resolve not to show any more emotion until I'm out of the camera's right. There's no need to mark myself as a weakling before the Games even start.

I'm sure Effie is speaking, but I still can't hear, can't even think. All I can see is Prim, still held in Gale's arms, with tears streaking down her cheeks. My little duck, my everything.

But it's all coming back. Along with the realization Effie is going to pick the male tribute. She already has the slip in her powdered hand. I hope it's not someone I know. It'll be easier that way. But I have no time to even process this thought because she's already at the microphone.

"Peeta Mellark."

No.

I find him easily as the crowd backs away. I see his eyes, already full of fear, catching mine. He lurches towards the stairs. It's a miracle he doesn't trip.

Effie gives a maniacal smile, clownish with the heavy makeup. "Wonderful! Our two Tributes from District 12!"

We're facing each other, neither moving.

"Well? Shake hands you two!"

I reach out and he grabs it like a lifeline. When he gives a light squeeze, I think it's meant to reassure me. It's something he would do. But muscles flicker in his arm, reminding me of how strong he is. Stronger than me.

As Effie gives her closing remarks to the camera, my mind is on her first words. Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.

No, the odds are not in my favor today. Peeta Mellark is my fellow tribute.

Ok, what'd you think? You can tell I've really made this as bare as possible. Review and let me know.

Also, in the book, Katniss talks about falling from a tree and getting the wind knocked out of her. I substituted this with Peeta's story of the bread pan. Believe it or not, I've done something similar. 2nd degree burn. Nasty thing. I was just frozen, holding on. Anyway just thought that's interesting.

Stick around for chapter 3.