A/N: O. M. G.

You guys are ridiculously amazing. Do you want to know why? Oh, okay, I'll tell you . . . I got 40 reviews for the last chapter. Forty. Freaking. Reviews. (squeals)

Dudes, that's epic!

Seriously. I was on cloud one hundred gazillion. Screw 'cloud nine.' On a completely random note, does anyone know where that phrase comes from? Weird . . .

Okay, back on topic. You guys are EPIC. EPIC! I was blown away by the response I got from the last chapter, and I'm beyond thrilled that you guys seemed to like it as much as I did! So, thanks again for being epically awesome. :D

So . . . we start the arena this chapter. Oh, goody. Things will be the same and yet different at the same time. You'll see what I mean. The emotional atmosphere will be completely different. The motives for certain actions will be completely different. And maybe, just maybe, I can get Katniss to realize she's in love with a particularly strong, sexy, charming, selfless, completely amazing baker boy . . .

Hmm . . . Peeta, maybe? ;)

Oh, and on a quick side note, I've gotten a few questions as to whether I'm a girl or a guy. I'm a girl. More specifically, I'm an 18 yr. old girl getting ready to start college in the fall. My major, you might ask? English. I know, SHOCKER. ;)

Random Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once . . . Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo . . . still think I own HG?

Chapter 9

My first thought before I open my eyes is that I'm very comfortable. The pillow beneath my head is a little firmer than normal . . . wait, it's a lot firmer than normal . . . and . . . moving? My brain slowly pushes away the fog of sleep, and I realize where I am. Most importantly, I realize who I'm with.

Peeta.

Oh my . . .

Slowly, I lift my head from his chest to peek up at him. Thankfully, he's still asleep. I study his face for a moment, relaxed and blissfully unaware in sleep. His blonde curls have fallen into his eyes, his mouth is slightly opened. I feel a smile pull at the corners of my lips. He looks so . . . adorable.

Ugh. I'm not even awake for five minutes and he's already making my emotions haywire. Since when have I ever thought anything or anyone adorable? Aside from Prim, that is.

Moving silently, I try and escape from Peeta's arms, but at my slight movement, they tighten around me, keeping me close. I huff in exasperation.

"It's not even five in the morning, and you're already scowling," a deep, sleepy voice informs me.

"I am not scowling," I mumble.

"Yeah you are."

"No."

"You're about to."

I look up at Peeta and see that though his eyes are still closed, there's a sleepy smile on his face.

I scowl.

"Yep, I was right."

"Will you let me go?" I ask, causing him to open his eyes and blink a few times, batting the sleep away. "You're kind of trapping me here."

It's as if he's just now realized the intimate position we were in. A faint blush colors his cheeks. "Sorry," Peeta apologizes and his arms slip from around me. I immediately sit up, awkwardness settling in as I realize that I just spent an entire night wrapped up in Peeta's arms . . . and I really didn't mind.

Oh, if my mother were here now . . .

The bed shifts and when I look to my right, I see Peeta sitting up beside me, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He runs a hand through his hair before shaking it out a little bit. "So," he says. "Let the Games begin."

My throat is dry, and I feel my palms begin to sweat at his words. A tangle of nerves tightens in my stomach as I realize that in only a few hours, I will be in the arena. In only a few hours, I might be dead.

It's quite a thought to wake up to.

Suddenly, the door to my room opens and Peeta and I freeze, our eyes wide, as we stare into the equally surprised eyes of our mentor.

"Well, hey there, sweetheart," Haymitch says after a moment. He looks between Peeta and me. "Bad time?"

Peeta and I look at each other before Peeta looks back at Haymitch. "It's not what it looks like."

"Well, I figured that since you two are clothed," Haymitch smirks and I want to punch him.

I practically jump out of the bed. "What do you want, Haymitch?" I snap.

"We need to talk real quick," Haymitch says. "Your stylists will be here in a few minutes, and they'll take you up to the roof. A hovercraft will be waiting, and you'll be taken to the arena."

I swallow at the mention of the Games, so very near in my future.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there," Haymitch advises. "You're neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?"

"And after that?" I ask.

"Stay alive."

The same advice he first gave us on the train. It sounded stupid then. Now? Not so much. In fact, it's the only advice he can truly give. Stay alive. That's the only way you win.

Peeta and I nod. What else is there to say?

Haymitch breaks the short silence, looking at Peeta. "You better get to your room, kid," he says. "Portia will be here any minute."

Peeta glances at me and gives me a quick smile before disappearing out the door.

This leaves Haymitch and me alone. He's looking at me oddly, and it makes me uncomfortable. It's like he's trying to see something that's not really there. "That boy loves you," he finally says.

I look at him, frowning, uncomfortable with the reminder. "I know."

Haymitch nods. "Don't screw it up, then."

And with that statement Haymitch turns around and leaves. I barely have a second to wonder what he could have possibly meant before Cinna comes through the door. He has me change into a simple shift, and then we're going up the stairs to the roof. I don't see Peeta anywhere. This bothers me. The fact that the last time I might ever see him was earlier this morning. We'd barely spoken. I don't like that I didn't get to say goodbye.

A hovercraft appears out of nowhere, like the day in the woods when I'd seen the redhaired Avox. A ladder drops down, and I grab onto it. Immediately, a current cuts through my body, and I'm frozen. I can't move a muscle as the ladder hauls me up.

When I reach the entrance to the hovercraft, I'm still attached unmoving to the ladder. A woman in a white lab coat approaches me with a syringe. "This is just your tracker, Katniss. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.

Seriously? I couldn't move if I tried.

However, my stillness does nothing to detract from the sharp, stinging pain as she injects the tracker deep under the skin of my forearm. Cinna is pulled up next, and then we are shown to a breakfast area that has been set up.

I'm sure that the smell of the food is supposed to make my mouth water. However, this morning all it does is make my stomach churn. Either way, I force myself to eat as much as I can. This is the last guaranteed meal that I will have.

I've just about stuffed myself when the windows of the hovercraft suddenly black out, and I realize that I'm near the arena. I force myself to swallow my food and it sits unpleasantly in my stomach. When we land in an underground tunnel, Cinna and I are escorted through the catacombs beneath the arena to my Launch Room, or, if you're from District 12, the Stockyard, where animals are led to slaughter. Great comparison, right? Definitely a confidence builder.

Once we're in my Launch Room, they leave Cinna and me alone. There's a refreshment table set up, but the thought of eating any more makes me sick. The room is immaculately clean and shiny. Brand new. Just for me. I will be the only tribute to ever occupy this room.

You see, each arena is only ever used once before they are made into historic sites. People of the Capitol can tour them for fun, a vacation. They can see the Launch Rooms, walk through the arena. See where tributes died. There's even battle reenactments . . . I hear the food is excellent.

My clothes for the arena are laid out on a small table. Cinna had no knowledge or hand in their choosing. He helps me dress. Tawny pants, a green shirt, a thick brown belt, a long black jacket made of a seemingly thin and flimsy material that hangs down mid-thigh.

"It's made to reflect body heat," Cinna tells me. "Expect some cold nights."

To my slight surprise, but great relief, the leather boots that they provide are almost as good as my hunting boots at home. They form to my feet and have a slight rubber insole. Good for running.

Cinna has me move around in the clothes to get used to them. I walk, run a circle around the room, and move my arms in all directions, getting a feel for them.

"How do they feel?" he asks.

"Fine," I say. "Perfect fit."

Cinna asks me if I want any food, but I shake my head. However, I do accept the glass of water he offers me. I take a seat on the small couch in the corner of the room, and Cinna takes a seat beside me. I slowly sip my water as we sit in silence, waiting.

My heart rate slowly speeds up the longer we wait. The waiting is torture. Just . . . waiting. Waiting to be thrown into the arena. Waiting to die. There's nothing I can do to prepare for it, no matter what training, no matter what skills I have. When it all comes down to it . . . all I can do is sit and wait.

Unthinkingly, I grasp Cinna's hand and hold it tightly. Cinna returns the strength of my hold, and we continue to sit together in silence until a pleasant voice informs me to prepare for launch.

My mounting nerves catapult into pure terror. It's like ice in my veins, and I'm frozen. I'm sure my fear shows on my face because Cinna takes it gently in his hands. "Remember what Haymitch said," he tells me calmly. "Run. Find water. Stay alive."

I nod my head and swallow thickly.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he mumbles and fishes something out of his pocket.

My eyes widen as I realize it's my mockingjay pin. I had it laid out on my dresser in my room. In the haste of the morning I'd forgotten about it. "Here," he says. "It took some convincing with the officials, but eventually they cleared it. They thought it could be used as a weapon, but I was able to persuade them otherwise."

He smiles at me and pins it to my jacket.

I give him a weak smile in return before stepping onto the platform that will raise me into the arena.

"Remember," Cinna says softly. "I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you."

"Truly?" I whisper, fear taking away my voice, though Cinna's words comfort me.

"Truly." Cinna kisses me on the forehead. "Good luck, girl on fire."

A glass tube suddenly begins to lower around me, severing my connection with Cinna. My hand finds the glass, fruitlessly trying to reach him. Cinna places his hand on the glass, mirroring my action, giving me one last comforting gesture.

And then I feel the platform begin to rise.

My heart is racing so fast I'm afraid I'll just keel over and die right here. My mother's mentioned something like that once, a heart attack, she'd called it. A cool breeze suddenly hits my face and the bright light of the arena blinds me for a moment. I quickly blink, my eyes adjusting to the light.

And then the voice of legendary announcer Claudius Templesmith resounds throughout the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

I gulp, though I try to school my features in case there's a camera on me. They usually do a quick sweep of all twenty-four tributes when they're on the platforms. A countdown appears in the air in front of me, and I watch as the seconds tick by.

Sixty seconds. A lone minute. One minute to get my bearings before all hell breaks loose. I have one more minute of living that's guaranteed. Well, unless I step off my platform before the sixty seconds is up. If I do, the platform is wired to explode. One year, when I was ten, that very thing happened to a tribute from District 6. She'd been shaking so badly she'd lost her footing.

Boom.

It's with this thought that I plant my feet firmly on the platform. My eyes take in my surroundings. Directly ahead of me and the rest of the tributes is the Cornucopia, a gold, open cone-shaped structure that's probably about twenty feet tall at the mouth. Its horn is curved upwards.

Surrounding the Cornucopia are supplies. Food. Water. Tents. Blankets. Weapons. Everything you could possibly need to survive the Games. The further out from the Cornucopia you get, the more the goodies shrink in value. For example, only a few feet in front of me is a three-foot square sheet of plastic.

The tributes are spread an equal distance apart in front of the Cornucopia, letting us all get a good look at the supplies, which are so, so tempting. My eyes zero in on a glint of silver that lies on top of some blankets.

A quiver of arrows.

The bow is right beside the quiver, an arrow already strung.

That's mine, I think. I have to get it. That bow is how I win these Games. It's my lifeline. I need that bow.

I hear Haymitch in my head, growling at me. "Get the hell out of there. Find water. Stay alive."

But I need that bow.

The Cornucopia is only forty yards in front of me. I'm a fast sprinter, the fastest girl in school, though there are a few girls that can beat me in distance races. But this is only forty yards. This is my race. I can do this. I can get that bow. Maybe Haymitch would have told me to go for it if he'd seen me run.

I glance around quickly, trying to get a hold of the rest of my surroundings. I'm aware that the sixty seconds is winding down, even if it's been the slowest sixty seconds of my entire life. Behind the tributes in front of me I see nothing, indicating a sharp slope or maybe a cliff. To my right is a large lake. To my left and back I see sparse, piney woods.

That's where Haymitch wants me to go.

But I need my bow.

It's the only one that I see. It's my salvation.

I decide to go for it. With my speed, if I get a good jump when the gong sounds, I'll reach the Cornucopia before everyone else.

But then what? My bow is not a close range weapon, and the bloodbath at the Cornucopia is always close quarter combat. Fists. Swords. Knives. Bludgeons. Exactly the kind of battle that I can't win.

I glare at the bow and arrows, as if I can will them to fly into my hands.

Suddenly, the countdown cuts through my thoughts and seems to resound in my ears.

Ten.

I've got to get the bow.

Nine.

It's how I'll win.

Eight.

It's mine.

Seven.

A glimpse of blonde out of the corner of my eye causes my head to turn. I meet Peeta's eyes. He's shaking his head.

Six.

Peeta's telling me to run.

Five.

He wants me to leave the bow.

Four.

What am I going to do?

Three.

I'm getting that bow.

Two.

But Peeta . . .

One.

The gong goes off and I leap off my platform. I realize going for the bow is a bad idea, but I'm not leaving without something. I grab the sheet of plastic in front of me and the loaf of bread beside it. Fifteen yards in front of me I see a bright orange backpack and I lunge for it.

But another hand reaches it just as I do. I grapple over the pack with the boy from 9 before suddenly he stills, his eyes wide, his mouth open. A warm, sticky substances sprinkles onto my face. Blood.

He falls over, his grasp now slack. I yank the pack up and onto my shoulder and start running. I'd seen the knife sticking out of his back and there was only one person here who could throw knives like that. Clove, the girl from District 2.

I'm running full-tilt toward the woods now. All of my fear of the Games has condensed into one solid mass of terror of this one girl. I hear a whisper of a blade in the air and instinctively raise the backpack protectively over my head. The blade lodges in it, but I don't bother to yank it out. I continue to run toward the woods. My legs are propelling me forward at a speed I didn't know I possessed. Maybe it's the fear, the adrenaline pumping through my veins like fire.

I pause briefly at the edge of the woods. I don't see Peeta, and I feel my stomach drop, but I can't focus on that now. The point is that no one is following me, even if I didn't expect them too. They'd stay at the Cornucopia. They had other tributes to kill. Evidence of my thoughts is on the ground. Bloodied, dead bodies are already strewn about in front of the Cornucopia.

I hope that Peeta isn't one of them.

Although, as I turn around and begin to run deeper in the woods, the thought crosses my mind that maybe it would be better for Peeta to die. That way, I wouldn't have to worry about killing him myself. I shake my head clear of these thoughts. These thoughts don't matter right now. What matters is putting distance between myself and the other tributes and finding a source of water.

I find a steady jog that I know I can keep up for a long while. The woods are my domain, my realm of expertise. I alternate jogging and walking, surprised by my stamina. I still feel like I could go for a while longer. All that Capitol food, I guess.

My feet carry me deeper and deeper into the valley, and the trees gradually thicken. Lots of pine and hardwoods. Most I know, and yet some are unfamiliar to me. I'm getting worried though. I've been on the move for hours, and I haven't seen a single drop of water.

I frown as I remember the lake at the Cornucopia. What if it was the only source of water in the arena? It wasn't a farfetched idea. The lake being the only source of water ensured bloodshed. The tributes would all have to meet if they didn't want to die of dehydration.

I continue to walk for another hour or so, ignoring the dryness in my throat. My eyes continuously glance about, looking for any sign of water. I hear the soft rustle of a bush and immediately spin and draw my knife. It's a relatively long blade with a serrated edge near the handle. Good for cutting if I ever have the need.

My foe that hops out of the bushes is a rabbit. "Oh, am I glad to see you," I whisper. The rabbit has to get water somewhere, right?

I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear a voice. "Feeling's mutual."

My eyes dart up and from the bushes Peeta emerges looking a little worse for wear.

But he's alive.

His clothes are ruffled, and he's bleeding from a cut above his eye and a gash on his left bicep. A bruise is forming on his cheekbone, but other than that he's perfectly fine. I feel a smile spread across my face at the sight of him and before I know what I'm doing I'm closing the distance between us and throwing my arms around him.

"Hey," Peeta chuckles. "It's almost like you didn't expect to see me again." Even though his words suggest nonchalance, his arms are so tight around me that it's almost difficult to breathe.

"Don't say that," I chide him, shaking my head. "Don't even joke about it."

"Sorry," he apologizes softly, burying his face my hair. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

I pull back, well, as much as I can in his tight embrace, and look at him oddly. "Huh?"

"Well, you see, I come bearing gifts," Peeta explains. "Just a little insurance so you'll let me stay with you."

Now I'm really confused.

Peeta lets me go, and reaches down to pick something up from the ground. When he straightens up and holds it out to me, I can hardly believe my eyes.

My bow and arrows.

"You sorta knocked them out of my hands when you attacked me," Peeta teases with a grin.

I take the bow from him, running a hand over the cool metal. I swing the quiver of arrows over my shoulder, and clutch the bow in my hands. "Thanks," I say.

Peeta shrugs, a shy smile gracing his features. "No problem."

My eyes settle on the cut above his eye that's slowly seeping blood. "You need to put some pressure on that," I say.

In response, Peeta reaches a hand up and touches it lightly, only to wince. He looks at the blood on his fingers, almost as if he doesn't believe he's bleeding in the first place. I roll my eyes and hand him my bow and quiver to hold before I shrug the backpack off my shoulders.

"Scared me half to death when you went for that," Peeta tells me, and I look up at him curiously. "That's what got me this," he says, motioning to the cut on his arm as I unzip the backpack. "District 7's axe clipped me."

The thought of Peeta dodging the slice of a heavy axe makes my gut clench.

I focus my thoughts on the contents of my pack. I hope that there's a bottle of water in it. Haymitch's order to find water was not merely a suggestion. I won't last long without it. I amend that thought. Peeta and I won't last long without it. We'll be able to make it for a few days suffering the effects of dehydration, but eventually we'll die. A week tops is the longest we'll last without water.

So, naturally, when I unscrew the half-gallon water bottle in the pack, it's empty. Bone dry.

"Figures," Peeta mutters.

I continue to pull items from the pack. There's a package of crackers and beef jerky, which eases my mind a little, though because Peeta is with me I'll have to be even more conscientious about making it last. A bottle of iodine. A box of matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. A sleeping bag made of the same heat-reflective material as my jacket.

"We'll have to camouflage that pack," Peeta says. "That orange will still show in the dark."

I nod in agreement. "You'd do a better job of that than me," I say. "We'll have to wait until we can find something to use though."

"Mud would be best," Peeta comments. "But first we need water."

"Yeah," I agree. All of this is obvious to me, which is why I haven't voiced any of these thoughts. But I know that Peeta does his best thinking aloud, so I let him talk.

I put everything back into the pack, but as I'm about to sling it over my shoulder, Peeta stops me. He offers the bow and quiver back to me. "Trade you," he says with a small smile.

I take my bow with a grin and swing the quiver of arrows over my shoulder. Peeta shoulders the backpack, and we're just about to get moving when the cannons begin.

A cannon fire signals the death of a tribute. However, since the battle at the Cornucopia is so chaotic, the Gamemakers always wait until the bloodbath is over before firing off the cannon. Peeta and I count the number of shots.

One . . . two . . . after the eleventh cannon, the air is silent.

"Eleven," Peeta says quietly.

My expression is grim. "Thirteen left."

And let the worst first date in history commence!

Yes, I really do see their time in the arena as a date. A terrible, death-thwarting, first date. Seriously. I managed to work flirting into the next chapter. Surprised? So was I. :D

Anywho, the Hunger Games have officially begun! Woo!

Review? Make my world go round? Pretty please?

Lots of love,

AC