A/N: "I-I-I wanna ta-a-ake you awa-a-ay— take you from the Hunger Games…!" Just kidding. But if you haven't seen the video, look it up. It's awesome.

Actually, "Hot Blooded" was playing on the radio when I was coming home from the grocery store, so that's my inspiration for this chapter.

And I know I plugged revolution radio in my last chapter, but I've reconnected with my homeboy Andrew Sims and am now an avid listener of Hypable's Hunger Games Chat. Sorry Revolutionaries. But your intro is the bomb.

**Chapter 3**

The car pulls up behind the justice building and we slide out into the cool sunshine. I'm queasy. I use my sleeve to wipe droplets of sweat from my upper lip. The mayor of District 8 greets us and ushers our party through the back door of the building.

The building is cavernous and echo-y. The tiled floors are so shiny that I can see my reflection under my feet. I hold tightly to Peeta's hand, afraid that I'm going to fall over. The mayor speaks in a chirpy, jovial voice as he leads us through rooms, pointing out statues and paintings and important plaques.

I'm not paying attention. At all. We walk past a dining room, and, like all the districts we've already visited, I can smell the dinner that is being prepared for us. I'm glad we quickly pass the door. I'm not sure I can take the scent of food for long.

When the tour is finished, Peeta and I are left in an entrance hall to wait the few minutes until our grand appearance in front of District 8's population. Effie, Haymitch, and the stylists are settled in a sitting room off the hall to watch our speeches on television.

I pace before the large front doors, holding my forehead with one hand. I breathe deeply and run through my speech in my head. I can do this. I can spend three minutes on camera. What will happen after that, I have no idea. But I can do this.

An attendant comes down the hall. "Hold still," she says sharply as she attaches a microphone to my blouse. I want to reply with something snappish, but I can't think of anything to say. So I dab some more perspiration from my lip.

The mayor of District 8 comes down the hall, his shiny black shoes slapping down the tiled floor. "I'm heading out to introduce you now. You follow in 45 seconds. Your mikes go live when you come through the doors," he directs. I nod. Peeta is at my side clutching my hand.

The mayor slips through the doors. I immediately hear him announce my and Peeta's names, followed by clapping. I've forgotten that I'm supposed to be counting until Peeta is guiding me forward. I'm nauseous and shaking. "Don't let me fall," I whisper to Peeta.

"'Course I won't. I've got you," he replies as he gently wraps his arm around my waist.

We push through the doors and stand at the top of the steps, staring out at the massive crowd. The sun is bright, so I'm squinting, but the crowd seems impeccably organized. They are arranged in perfect rows, staring up at us. I suppose this is the result of living in a highly organized, factory-oriented society.

The mayor gestures toward us from behind his podium. Peeta begins the memorized speech. I have to clear my throat a little before I can say my part. I get my lines out, then stand silently. My hands are clammy, and the faces of the crowd are blending together. There is a faint scent of industrial exhaust in the air, which is turning my stomach. I'm hoping I can make it through the acceptance of the awards.

The mayor turns to Peeta and me. He's gesturing toward us as he speaks. Probably talking about all our great accomplishments. Two attendants come forward with dinner plate sized plaques, which the mayor presents to us. Peeta graciously thanks the mayor and all of District 8. I'm glad he does, because I can't will myself to open my mouth. Finally, there is applause. Peeta raises his arm to wave, and guides me back toward the doors to the Justice Building.

I shove my award at Peeta and bolt toward a large planter outside the door. A tall, thick green bush is growing in the waist high concrete box. It's the only bit of greenery I've seen in this extremely mechanized district. I'm doubled over, puking what little is in my stomach into the dirt. I hear the double clunk as the awards fall to the ground. Peeta has dropped them as he rushes to my side. He holds my hair out of my face with one hand and keeps the other around my waist to keep me from pitching forward.

I finish gagging and try to spit the horrible taste from my mouth. It's minty and faintly chemical from all the shit Effie gave me. "It's okay," Peeta soothes, stroking my hair. I feel like I'm going to black out. I'm leaning heavily against him as I struggle to find my feet.

"Did…did they see?" I choke out. I'm not sure why I care. What does it matter if all of District 8 sees that I'm sick? It'll certainly help my case with President Snow if I'm too weak to incite a rebellion. But somewhere deep inside me I don't want to meet Snow's demands. I want to appear strong and independent.

"No. Bush is blocking us," Peeta says. "They probably think we're making out."

I force out a tiny laugh. "They're all still there?" Of course they are. Our public appearance has only been over for about a minute.

"Yeah," says Peeta. "We've got to get out of here. Get you inside before anyone gets suspicious."

I can practically read his thoughts. I know how he plans for us to emerge from the cover of the bush. I spit one more glob of mucous into the planter before Peeta picks up the plaques and pulls me around the corner and into public view. He keeps one arm securely around me and palms my burning cheek with the other. Peeta kisses me gently, pressing his lips to my face slightly to the left of my mouth. I hear the crowd sigh. He kisses my forehead, then guides me through the doors and into the Justice Building.

A/N: Update coming soon. There will probably be 2ish more chapters in this story. PLEASE REVIEW! I've had almost 1,000 hits and only 4 reviews! That's a 0.4% review rate. At least bring it up to 1%! Thanks friends!