Chapter 5: Lightning in a Bottle
The next year goes by in the blink of an eye. Before I know it, it is the morning of the 89th Hunger Games Reaping. This year, I rise unfashionably early, long before the Peacekeepers will arrive to escort me to the Justice Building. And I have good reason to.
This year is the 15th anniversary of my first win, and also the 15th anniversary of Gale Hawthorne's death. Many of my hunting partner's old friends and customers have thrown together a small memorial in the Fallen Tributes Graveyard. It's the best we can do. The Capitol wouldn't publicly sanction such a commemoration; they would probably find some way to dub it as treason.
But first, I have to stop by Mellarks' Bakery to pick up some bread - a packet for home, and another packet for the road to the Capitol. In the past year, Peeta and I have grown even closer as friends. He often comes and visits me in Victors' Village, especially during those times when I have PTSD flashbacks.
Today, Peeta has opened up early just for me. He allows me back behind the counter as he goes to retrieve the bread, before passing them off to me.
"We're having a small gathering at the graveyard. For remembering Gale's death. You wanna come?"
He shakes his head, and I can tell he is grappling with sad emotions of his own. "No thanks."
"Well... are you at least coming to the train station?"
"I think you've got enough people saying goodbye without me there."
I shrug morosely. I wonder if he's feeling this cold because he misses me while I'm at the Games. "It's only a few weeks. I'll be back before you know it."
"You always come back. Now, go on. Don't let me keep you from your Seam hero."
I bristle slightly at this bitterness, this anger I see coming to the surface. This isn't like Peeta. Except whenever I mention... of course. "Are we gonna do this again? Peeta, the Star-Crossed Lovers thing was an act."
"Yeah, and it was a damn good one."
"I did what I had to do to survive. If I didn't, I'd be dead!"
His hands cup my face without warning, and he presses his lips to mine. I feel the slightest shock go through my body, but it is gone as quickly as it appeared. My eyes droop shut almost instantly as I gently relax into the kiss. I even let out something of a moan into Peeta's mouth: "Hmmmmmmm..." He draws away slowly, the smacking sound of our lips disengaging palpable in the silence of the bakery. Still, I stare at him in almost disbelief.
"I had to do that. At least once." And then he turns to head into the back of the shop. I take my leave.
As I hurry through the already-muggy morning back towards Victors Village and the memorial, I have time to slow my spinning brain down and think. I ponder how I feel about the kiss, whether I liked it or resented it. No... I enjoyed it... Peeta is a good kisser... and his lips tasted like freshly baked bread...
I collect myself as I enter the Village, where a crowd has already gathered around the Fallen Tributes' Graveyard. Greasy Sae, one of Gale's and my frequent customers in the Hob, says a few kind words. Then, a mining buddy of Gale's lays down his mining helmet next to the headstone. I follow suit with a bushel of katniss, the flower for which I was named. I was going to dig up Gale's old bow and leave that, but decided against it, afraid the Peacekeepers would get a hold of it.
That is all. I quickly shoo everyone away and retreat into my mansion; the Peacekeepers will be here soon. When my escort arrives, they appear surprised that I am up, ready and waiting for them, but no questions are asked. We simply conduct our annual walk to the square in silence. I see Peeta amongst the crowd - attendance of the Reaping is required - but he doesn't meet my gaze. I glance away, crestfallen, and take my seat. Before I know it, Effie is approaching the podium. Did I fall asleep for the Dark Days speech, or was I just hopelessly tuned out?
"Welcome! Welcome! The time has come to select one young man and young woman for the honor of representing District Twelve in the 89th Annual Hunger Games! As always: ladies first." She plucks a paper for the Girls. "Bridget Etheridge!"
That practically rhymes. The poor gal, I think, as I watch a skinny little thing of 14 take the stage. Effie moves on to the Boys.
"Dean Cronin!"
There is movement from the 16-year-olds. A lad who looks to be Seam emerges to take his place on the stone steps. Tall. Stocky. Dark hair. His face is drawn in a tight line. He's a looker in his own right, and I know there will be some sponsor who might take an interest in him. That is, if he makes it far enough - a skill set I have yet to determine.
Bridget and Dean shake hands and they, along with Effie and I, are escorted to the train. In the crunch of the crowd that do come to see us off on the locomotive, I scan for Peeta. There is no sign of him. Feeling a hole in my heart, I try not to let any tears show as we are practically shoved aboard, and I am bound for the Capitol once again.
The train ride passes by in silence at first. Our little quartet digs into the meal the Avoxes provide us, if nothing else to break the awkward tension. Better to be doing something than nothing at all. I wait. Usually, the way I work is to let the tributes come to me with questions. I can't help them if they don't open up to me, and I can't force them to. That has to be something they do on their own.
Dean is finally the first to break the ice. "So: how do we win?"
I eye him, almost blankly. "You don't."
He scowls. "Well, that's very encouraging of you..." His voice dripping with sarcasm.
"You don't win. You survive. And those are two very different things."
Dean placates his hands in mock surrender, though I can tell he appreciates my astute clarification. I study him more closely. I've seen him before, around town, and sometimes even the Hob. Though I admit, it has been a few years. "You're the butcher's son, aren't you?"
Dean shrugs and nods. Despite being very non-emotive, I sense that my observation has pleased him.
"Used any meat cleavers?"
He nods, his enthusiasm the strongest I have seen thus far.
"Simpler knives?"
"All kinds."
"Good. Be prepared to have those in the arena. A meat cleaver might be even more preferable, but there's no guarantee the Gamemakers will provide a weapon that specific." Another thought strikes me. "Oh: and whatever you do, don't use any knives or blades whatsoever in training."
Dean frowns. "Why not? Shouldn't I be intimidating the competition?"
"Not as much as you should be leaving them in the dark about your skills. And also taking the training as an opportunity to learn new ones," I explain. "Handle weapons you've never used or seen before. Learn how to build a fire. Study the edible plants and practice with snares."
Dean nods, impressed by my breadth of knowledge. I turn to the girl, Bridget. "What can you do?"
She folds a little into herself, perhaps shy or intimidated by being here. "Not much. I can run really fast. I won the Sprinting Competition at school. But that's nothing."
"It's not nothing," I encourage, trying to give her some faith. "Sometimes, evading means even more than standing your ground in a fight. If you can outrun the competition..."
"And I can hide really well," Bridget interrupts.
I go with it. "Even better. And you're small enough that the bigger tributes might overlook you. All the same, I would spend Training mastering some weaponry and learning hand-to-hand combat. Running and hiding are fine, but they won't last forever. Eventually, you'll have to fight."
Bridget pales at this prognosis, but tries to be brave, nodding as shortly as Dean.
I return to my meal, trying not to give anything away on my face. And especially not any pain. For I think I already know how this Games is going to go. At least I have some idea.
And for one of my tributes, it isn't good.
A/N: Dean Cronin is a composite character, from two of my favorite Hunger Games fics - Dean Rivers from She's a Survivor That One by BookNinja93, and Rafe Cronin from Once a Victor, Never a Winner by alatariel-gildaen.
