How's everyone's weekend going? Mine's actually not terrible *Gasp*

I know.

Anyway, I know last chapter was short (and so is this one) so I'm going to (try) and make up for it by an early post.

This chapter is also pretty standard. I've changed almost nothing, it's just my writing. Sorry for the filler!

KATNISS

Soft light filters though the open shades. It's clearly not before dawn, so I must have slept in. A lot. Probably the stress of the Reaping. And my impending death.

When I go to change, I find my mother's dress gone. Only the mockingjay pin atop the dresser. Mages pin. My pin. My token.

I sigh, then straighten. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I search for new clothes, finally deciding on jeans and a soft black shirt. While rebraiding my hair, last night comes back.

I'd known that if we talked, he'd convince me; but I did anyway. I went against my better judgement. Peeta could just be drawing me in, waiting to kill me the moment we're in the arena. I almost want it to be true. Because when I said I'd suppress any feelings for him, I'd already failed. There's no point in denying it–why else would I admit fear? I haven't opened up to anyone in a long time. Not even Prim saw that side of me. Maybe Gale. But telling Peeta I was scared of being hurt… It was a moment of weakness. The stress from the day. Because if I could, I'd take those words back. It was stupid to allow him to see me.

And when he took my hand. And I let him. The loneliness had abated for those few seconds. Long enough for me to realize I cared for him in some capacity. Trusted him. I shouldn't have agreed to a truce. Or an alliance. Too late to back out now.

No it's not. I'm giving excuses. Because I can't bear to cut off the boy with the bread. I tried that, and look where I am now. In even deeper shit. In an alliance.

I stare into a mirror anchored to the train's wall. I'm dressed, hair braided, eyes sharp. I shouldn't wait any longer.

I set out of my compartment, making my way through the train. I pass the viewing room and enter what seems to be the dining car.

And it smells so good.

"Katniss! There you are." Effie's shrill words breaks me out of the food induced trance. "Come eat with us."

I'd rather not listen to or obey anything Effie tells me. But the table overflowing with fruit, bacon, pancakes, muffins, and really anything I could want…

The chair creaks as I take a seat. Next to Peeta. He gives me a soft smile, and I resolve not to return any feeling.

A Capitol attendant brings me a plate stacked, stacked, with food. It's more than I've ever had in one sitting. With the first bite, I suppress a moan. It's so rich. Within minutes I scarf down the pancakes drizzled with syrup. It's left my mouth slightly sticky and I seach for a drink. There's water in front of me, but also a myriad of other pitchers and teapots. Peeta puts a mug of some thick, brown liquid in my hand.

"They call it hot chocolate. It's good." He dips a fluffy roll into his mug and pops it in his mouth. "It's really good.

I try it. It's not good, it's heavenly.

I eat until my stomach is bursting. Peeta's eating like me. Scarfing down bacon and eggs. Huh. I thought being the baker's son would have ensured good food. But the way he's looking at his plate, as if it might disappear any second, makes me reconsider.

He spears a chunk of fruit when Effie speaks. I'm surprised she kept quiet for this long. "At least you two have manners. The last pair couldn't even use a fork!"

She's acting like it's an atrocity. I grind my teeth.

Last year's tributes were both from the Seam; they'd never had a full belly. The atrocity was their skeletal bodies, hollowed eyes. Starved, while the Capitol eats like this every day.

My family is unusual. With an ex-merchant mother, I learned how to use cutlery. With a scavenging father, we ate relatively well.

"It's good to see that not all of District 12 are savages," she says. As if it were a compliment.

Peeta's jaw clenches, while my vision is tinged red. Our eyes meet, and in unusion, we both wipe up the plate's remaining syrup with our fingers. Effie's lips purse, but I can't tell if she knows this is directly because of her comments. She certainly seems dense enough not to realize. I top it off by dipping my sticky finger in my water.

Her smile twitches, but holds.

I slowly wipe my hands on the pristine table cloth. Peeta's shaking slightly beside me. The edges of my mouth start to turn up as Effie opens her painted lips.

But Haymitch enters, interrupting whatever she was going to say. I can't tell if I'm disappointed or not.

Then I spot the flask already in his hand and notice the uneven steps.

Definitely disappointed.

The table shakes when Haymitch plops into the remaining chair. I'm grateful it's beside Peeta. Dark, lank hair falls in his eyes, but I can see the clouded look.

"Where's the ice?" He mumbles. Really? I'm about to chew him out when Peeta sets the ice box in front of Haymtich with a thud. I glare at Peeta. We can't let him walk all over us. But he stares right back with his own message. We need him on our side.

I know he's right. We need to play nice. Being rude to Haymitch won't help his motivation to talk with sponsors. Still, it's obnoxious. First thing in the morning, all he wants is to drink. He can't care to be sober enough to council us on the Hunger Games.

"We figured things out. We want you to mentor us," Peeta says.

No response.

This is ridiculous. "Haymitch," I snap.

His gaze drifts toward mine, lazy and unconcerned. "Calm down sweetheart. I told you, I can't do anything. You'll going to die either way."

What? I'm about to respond but Peeta beats me to it. "You said you'd mentor us. Yesterday. You said you'd try."

Haymitch shrugs, giving him a sleepy smirk. "I didn't think you'd accept. I expected you to realize you're going to die and just enjoy your last few days."

I'm almost shaking with anger. "You promised."

He just sits back, pouring his flask into the glass of juice. "I promised nothing. It wasn't a genuine offer. I did it to be polite. If you had manners, you'd say 'No thank you, Haymitch', and respect the fact that it's a waste of time."

His tone is sarcastic, eyes hazy. But the offer yesterday… it was genuine. He was sober enough to care. Maybe I need one of Effie's pills. But she stands with that fake smile. "I'm off to get ready for the cameras. Haymitch, after breakfast, I'd be good if you'd do so as well."

Haymitch snorts, but she's out the door before he can say anything. He just turns back to his drink, ignoring both of us.

When I glance at Peeta, his eyes are dark. "So not help, no advice, no sponsors? Nothing?" I've never heard that tone in his voice before. A low, controlled rage. It makes me shiver.

Haymitch doesn't seem affected. He just smiles a bit wider. "Advice? I'll give you some. Stay alive."

Peeta leans forward. "That's very funny." He strikes Haymitch's glass, shattering it against the wall. "Only not to us." The thin, red liquid runs down the paneling. I grip a knife, knowing it won't be any help; I can't stab our mentor.

Haymitch is still, as if deciding what to do. Quicker than I can register, his hand moves to hit Peeta-but it stops an inch away. Peeta's grasping his wrist. He didn't flinch.

Haymitch sits back and pulls his arm from Peeta's grip.

And reaches for his flask.

The knife is embedded in the table before I realize what I've done. It's between Haymitch's fingers, stuck a centimeter in.

He doesn't flinch either. Just raises his eyebrows. "Well. Did I get a pair of fighters this year?"

Neither of us respond.

"Can you hit something other than that table?" This is my chance. I have his attention.

The knife gives from the wood with a hard tug, and I hurl it at the wall. I've thrown knives to end an animal after wounding it with an arrow, but I'm not great. I'm just hoping for a good stick. But it lodges between the paneling, making me seem way better than I am. I'm not complaining.

"Stand up." We move to the middle of the room as Haymitch circles us: prodding muscles, pinching fat, inspecting our faces. "Both of you are in good shape. Not skeletal. And once the stylists are though you'll look pretty enough.

As he appraises us, I realize he's right. The days of hunting have made me fit, the game padding my body with a bit of fat. Peeta does heavy lifting for his family; the fact that he's a merchant's son ensures that he can eat. He's handsome, with a strong jaw and looks the Capitol eats up. Tall, clear eyes, curly blond hair. I'm good enough: I have my father's full lips, my mother's round face. Olive skin, Seam eyes. We're already better off than most of Twelve's tributes.

"So you'll help us?" Peeta's voice is hopeful.

"If neither of you interfere with my drinking, I'll mentor you."

But if he's drunk, he'll be no use anyway. "You'll stay sober enough to be productive." He meets my eyes. I'm not negotiating.

There's a small dip of his head. It's as close to a yes as I'll get.

"Ok, listen. When you get out, They'll bring you down to the remake center. Wherever they do, whatever they say, you go along. It'll be unpleasant and even painful, but don't resist."

He makes it sound like torture. Peeta voices my thoughts. "Is it that bad? Aren't they just going to clean us?"

Haymitch barks a laugh and turns around. Bastard. "Just don't resist. I'll see you at the ceremony."

When he's gone, Peeta turns to me. There's a small smile creeping on his face. "Nice throw."

I feel the corner of my mouth turning up. That's bad. I slam the wall down on my face. Put a flat tone in my voice. "It was luck. I can't throw like that."

He's undeterred by my hostility. "Well, at least your arrows aren't luck."

And then the windows go dark. We're under the mountain range that surrounds the Capitol. Under millions of tons of rock.

I think of my father. Still trapped under the weight of those collapsed mines. Crushing his dead body.

After he died, the school's yearly mine trips were agonizing. I make myself sick with anxiety. It let me get out of the tour though, so I was thankful. I haven't been down there for years, but it feels the same. The pressure, the invisible weight.

When I feel close to collapsing, bright light floods in. And the Capitol comes into view.

It's breathtaking. Soaring buildings with glass of all colors. Water fountains big enough to see from this distance. Clean, neat streets, decorated with statues and abstract sculptures. I've seen it on TV, but it doesn't do the city justice.

The train slows down, gliding along the tracks. Thousands of Capitol citizens are crowded, waiting for a glimpse of this year's tributes. They look absurd. Bright hair, dyed skin, frilly clothing. I don't see how it could be considered remotely fashionable.

Peeta moves to the window, smiling and waving. As if he enjoys it.

"Why are you indulging them? They're cheering for our deaths."

He looks back. "Who knows? One of them might be rich."

And I remember only one of us can win. We'll share sponsor parachutes for a while, but in the end, only one will survive. He's still trying to be that victor. No matter how many alliances we make, he'll still be hoping for my death.

So I walk up next to him. Lift my hand. And wave for the crowd.

Ok, I know this is super boring, I'm really sorry! I promise the next chapter will be better. We get some Portia/Peeta time and, depending on the word count, the tribute parade.

Thank you to owlthewriter, dancer0109, C Stark22, I Am Your Tribute, and Evangeline the Gothic Angel for the reviews.

A guest asked if I'll go through Mockingjay, and I probably won't. However, I'd like to create another fic that follows my version of events, but from the perspective of those outside the arena. Gale, Prim, Haymitch etc. will be watching the Games as I wrote them. We'll see.